by John Masters
Unforgiving in their vengeance, unrelenting in their heart?
Should he rather send a message to the proud unbending foe,
And Duryodhan’s haughty purpose seek by messenger to know?
The chanted Sanskrit died away and the rajah lowered his palms, which he had joined together to listen respectfully.
Krishna said, ‘Yes, but Rawal, when Krishna went to Hastina, there was no war. Now there is. The choice has already been made. It is only a question of whether we act nobly or ignobly, whether we stand by the British, or let them suspect that we are not really their friends after all.’
‘I don’t see why we should pretend to be their friends,’ the rajah said. ‘Their vassals, yes. Perhaps they are better overlords than the Germans would be. Certainly better than the Muslims were. But friends? No, no!’
‘Highness! ‘ Krishna said. ‘I am your grandson. The Lancers are my regiment. I want to take them to war. I will not be able to hold up my head if I do not. Grant me what I ask, I pray.’
‘Ah,’ the old man said slowly, ‘the young warrior wants to win his spurs. And what if you are killed?’
‘I have brothers.’
The old man cracked his swollen knuckles and winced. He stared, unfocused, at the darkly looming phallus. ‘And my people ... some, many will die. For what? So that their young rajah can prove himself? That is a worthy object. But, to help one lot of barbarians conquer another in a cold land across the forbidden Black Water? No, no!’
‘It will only last a couple of months,’ Krishna said. ‘The officers in Lahore all say it will be over by Christmas. If we don’t go at once we’ll be too late ... We have eaten their salt!’ He leaned forward urgently. He knew that would tell, for trueness--not to the spoken or written word, but to hosts, to guests--was a cardinal principle of his grandfather’s view of life. Thunder crashed close, shaking the temple and making the dancing shadows waver on the curved ceiling.
‘I suppose so,’ the rajah said heavily. ‘When the Agent set me on the gaddi out there, on the very spot where I had seen my father killed, he looked into my face, and, as clear as any message written on parchment, I saw what he did not say, for it was written in his cold blue eyes, If you forswear this allegiance, the bayonets are ready for you, too.’
‘The rajah is a man of peace,’ the Rawal said.
The rajah shook his head. ‘I am not. I am a man of fear. That is different. I am terrified of the British, as a man is terrified of rabies, more than of the rabid dog. They are to be feared for what they carry in their hearts and minds. What all Europe carries, I think. Blood. Hate. Something infectious, and fatal. It is not the war that I fear, but the exposure of my people to that fatal disease ... Rawal, what advice do you give us in this matter?’
The Rawal said, ‘The speech I quoted just now was made in Virata, when Yudisthir and his brothers were deciding whether to fight or to negotiate for the return of the kingdom which Duryodhan had usurped from them.’
Lightning lit up the outer room and glistened for a moment on the silent phallus. Krishna looked at the ceiling, trying to contain his patience. Why did Indians spend such time going circuitously round and round the point, bringing in old fables and legends that had no more truth than the Odyssey and the Iliad, and no more relevance to the questions which had to be answered, the decisions which had to be made?
The Rawal said, ‘They decided to send an envoy to Hastina, to the court of Duryodhan, to find out his intentions. Peace, or war. Destruction, or preservation.’
The nipples of an Apsaras seemed to move on the wall and Krishna’s young loins stirred.
‘That is our situation, lord rajah. The war that has been declared is not our war, and we have no need to take part in it. But there is a deeper struggle, between Christian, European ideals which have been imposed on us by force, and our own ancient ways and beliefs.’
‘Some of us do not need to be forced to accept the foreign way,’ the old Rajah said, with a half-smiling glance at Krishna.
‘True, sire,’ the Rawal said, ‘in any case, four methods are prescribed for us to follow in any such struggle or dispute. The first is sam, that is, dialogue, negotiation, discussion. We cannot hold the discussions necessary for sam here in India, for we are in a subordinate position and they are not their true selves. Let us therefore send an envoy to them. As the kings sent an envoy from Virata to Hastina, let us send an envoy to Europe. An envoy of the same name--Krishna.’
Krishna said, ‘You mean, you agree? That we should offer our Lancers for the Indian Expeditionary Force?’
After a pause and a suppressed sigh the Rawal said, ‘Yes, Highness ... but our motive will not be to help the British defeat the Germans, but to aid India in this other struggle I was talking about ... a struggle which is taking place inside you, particularly, Highness, every moment of every day.’ He turned back to the Rajah: ‘Sire, as I was saying, the first method tried should be sam. Let the Yuvraj, as India’s envoy, live among the Christians in the heart of their civilization, asking, seeing, observing, discussing, loving ... if he can. At the same time we will be carrying out the second method laid down in our philosophy, the method of dan, for surely the act of sending him and so many men to France, as hostages, is a gift, an appeasement.’
The rajah shifted comfortably, while Krishna tried hard to contain his impatience. The rajah said, ‘Very good. What of bhed?’
The Rawal said, ‘Bhed ... creating a rift in the enemy camp, so weakening him and thus making it difficult for him to win by force. Again, I think that the sending of the Yuvraj, and the regiment’s loyal service in the war, will create this rift. They will ask themselves--Can Hindus really be inferior, as we have believed for so long? Is it not only justice, our own justice, to let them go their own way? How can we hold down and despise those who have volunteered to stand up at our side? Can their civilization, which has its own values but is also able to live and fight by ours, really be dismissed or suppressed? ... Questions such as these, asked in the Christian camp, will carry out the method of bhed.’
‘And dand?’ Krishna said with sarcasm, ‘am I to start killing Englishmen if sam, dan, and bhed fail?’
‘It may come to that, Highness,’ the Rawal said equably. ‘As you know, dand--physical force--is only the last resort. Your love of and admiration for European ways will ensure that you, at least, will not resort to physical conflict unless you feel that you have no other recourse ... though I cannot promise the same of all the men who will be accompanying you.’
‘I can’t imagine that situation coming to pass,’ Krishna said shortly.
‘I can,’ his grandfather said grimly. ‘You are young. There are matters beyond your present imagining. I fear that this war will show them to you in a terrible guise. That is the worst thing about your embassy. You will leave here a young man, happy, unscarred ... and come back old, older than I ... So be it, then.’
Krishna said, ‘Will you please send the telegram at once, grandfather? There isn’t a moment to be lost.’
The old man said, ‘We’ll have to think of terms--pay, pensions of men killed or wounded, compensation ..
Krishna said, ‘I suggest that we ask for exactly the same terms as the Indian Army. It will save much time.’
‘Very well,’ the rajah said. ‘Help me up, boy ...’ He embraced his grandson suddenly, and Krishna was surprised to find the old body shaken by a silent sobbing. ‘Vishnu preserve you,’ the rajah muttered. ‘May Vishnu bring wisdom and truth to your soul ... Your mother told me she wanted to see you as soon as you came back.’
‘It is late, sir,’ Krishna said doubtfully.
‘Not for her,’ the rajah said. ‘Go, boy, lest worse befall--’ Krishna made obeisance to his grandfather, joined his palms to the priest, and hurried out of the temple. It was raining hard now, pools of water lay in the dark square, lashed by the rain, and the lamps at the palace gate flickered in their niches. A sleepy guard admitted him and he ran down the narrow co
rridors to his widowed mother’s door. He called, ‘Mother, it is Krishna. You wanted to see me?’
She answered at once. ‘Come, son.’ She was talking almost before he was through the door. ‘Where have you been? What dangers on the road in that devilish machine? Did you win the ca-ricket? How many rupees did you spend in the Hira Mandi?’
Krishna laughed, hugging her. ‘There, mother, now be quiet a moment. Yes, we won the cricket. Dayal Ram is bringing our team back by train to Pathankot tonight. They ought to be here tomorrow. He visited the Hira Mandi, of course, but I did not, at all. I took an English captain to tea at Faletti’s. Captain Bateman. I met him and his sister in January. And we’re going to the war! ‘
‘What war? What are you talking about, son?’
‘War in Europe. Grandfather is offering the Lancers to join the Indian Expeditionary Force to France.’
‘Oh,’ his mother said. She scratched her chin thoughtfully. ‘You’ve been meeting English women, eh? That will lead nowhere. We don’t want you marrying a European, like the Holkars. And you didn’t go to Hira Mandi? That Fleming Sahib put such puritanical ideas into your head that it’ll take some sensible Indian woman half her life to suck them out again. The Young Sahib, that’s what you are! Aiiih, my son twenty-seven and not a father! When are you going to get married again?’
‘When I fall in love,’ Krishna said, ‘but there’s no danger of that just now. I have more important matters in my mind.’
He had been married as a child to the daughter of another ruling house; but the girl had died of smallpox a week before the marriage was due to be consummated, on Krishna’s sixteenth birthday.
‘Bholanath’s granddaughter,’ his mother said thoughtfully. ‘She’s seventeen now and very pretty. Healthy and strong, too. That’s good stock. A cousin of yours, of course, but that’s no harm.’
‘Mother, I must go.’ He kissed her, stopping the flow of words in his embrace, and slipped out while she was still talking.
Hanuman, out of his splendid livery now, lay asleep across the doorway of his room. He rose silently as Krishna touched him with his foot, and said, ‘Lieutenant Pahlwan Ram was here. He said one of the dancing girls says she is in love with you. He will send her here if you want her.’
Krishna said, ‘I’m tired. And if I didn’t take a girl in the Hira Mandi, why should I take one now? Pahlwan ought to know I don’t like that kind of love.’
As Hanuman went on ahead of him, yawning and lighting the lamps, Krishna said, ‘That will do. I’m going to sleep now ... Do you know, we may be going to France to fight in the war?’
The squat orderly said, ‘Whom do we fight?’
‘The Germans.’
‘Are they white or brown or black?’
‘White.’
‘Ah. That’ll be the first time I ever fought a white man. But my father fought the English in the Great Mutiny time.’
‘I know, Hanuman. Go now.’
The orderly shambled out, his long arms swinging, and Krishna heard him lying down again on the mat outside the door. He began to undress. Mr. Fleming looked seriously at him from one of the silver frames on top of his chest of drawers. At the other end of the chest there was a picture of Ranjitsinhji raising his cap to the crowd after scoring a century for England; the picture was autographed by the great cricketer himself. What would they think of one of his captains offering him a dancing girl? Well, Ranji must have been brought up in similar circumstances, but Mr. Fleming would be very unhappy. Mr. Fleming had been insistent about the respect due to women, even the most humble, and about the sin of treating lightly what should be a deep, rare emotion.
He got into his pyjamas and climbed into bed. How long would it take the Viceroy to reply? How long after that would they be given to get the regiment equipped for overseas? He felt a pang of guilt as he remembered that he had not told Colonel Hanbury yet. He’d have to do that tomorrow. The colonel was really too old for active service, but the British would probably insist that he accompany the regiment or send another BO to take his place. He saw, in a vision, the Lancers cantering across a green field, the lances swinging slowly down to the horizontal, the steel points shimmering as the horses stretched into a gallop. At their head rode ... Krishna. The demi-god, his face dark blue. Himself.
He turned over uneasily, thinking of the conference in the temple. What would Miss Bateman think of that great phallus in the inner recess? How could she be expected to know that it was a concept of God’s immanence in creation? She would believe that Indians worshipped sex, thought of nothing but sex. Superstition, dirt, poverty ... What did the Rawal mean, that he was being sent as an envoy? Nonsense! He was going as an ally. Perhaps after this the Rajahs of Ravi would get a title equal to that bestowed on the Gaekwar of Baroda: Daulat-i-Inglesiya, Faithful Ally of the British Government.
A crash of thunder shook and rattled the new glass window in its frame, and lightning blazed like white fire over Mr. Fleming, Ranjitsinhji, and the small brass statue of the Lord Krishna embracing his mistress, the graceful Radha, on the mantelpiece.
August 1914
‘Next detail, ready! ‘ the rissaldar barked, and the eight sowars snapped to attention on the firing point. ‘Number!’
‘Detail, lying--load!’ The men sprang forward and down into the lying position. The bolts clicked, the rounds crunched home. Warren Bateman, walking up and down behind the raised earth platform of the firing point, heard the buzz of the field telephone. The signaller on duty picked it up and said, ‘Butts-men tayyar hain, rissaldar-sahib.’
The rissaldar acknowledged the information with a raised hand and gave the next order. ‘Five rounds grouping--fire! ‘
Monsoon clouds hung like bloated parti-coloured balloons over the ranges and the muddy fields and green trees that spread all round. Rain was falling on the city a couple of miles to the west and on the cantonments just behind him. Soon it would be raining here, too, and the men would be more depressed than ever. The annual course had to be fired, but Warren thought that in the circumstances it would be better to have postponed it for a time and taken the regiment out on a six-day route march, even though it would have had to be on foot. Anthrax, at this moment above all, when the division was mobilizing with frantic speed, to go first of all Indian troops to the war! And this regiment to be its spearhead, its cavalry arm to search and probe far ahead of the trudging infantry, to protect them against enemy infiltration, to be their eyes and their shield! It was a far more interesting role for the independently minded officer than service in an all-cavalry formation, endlessly practising the charge, endlessly extolling the arme blanche . . .
And now, a hundred horses already shot and burned, the ashes buried, the others under the strictest quarantine--the 44th Bengal Lancers had simply been wiped out as a cavalry unit, as effectively as though someone had cut the page out of the Indian Army List. The immediate fact was bad enough, seen in the context of the orders for mobilization received six hours before the outbreak was discovered; but the prospect before them was even more bleak. All the remounts available were wanted for the regiments in the Indian Cavalry Corps, and those on the North West Frontier. What on earth could they do with the men until horses were somehow found?
The banging of musketry continued. The squadron was firing badly, he noted. No good shouting at them--that never helped a man to aim or fire better. They were upset, and it showed.
A sowar carrying a silver-headed cane marched smartly up and saluted. ‘Colonel-sahib salaam bholta, sahib. Daftar men.’
Warren returned the salute, calling, ‘Rissaldar-sahib, mujhe daftar-ka jana hai,’ and headed towards the cantonments. It was a mile down a dusty track and the sun was hot and the air damp, for it was nearly ten o’clock. Sweat darkened the back of Warren’s khaki shirt and the top of his breeches under his Sam Browne. He wondered what the colonel wanted him for. He couldn’t think of any crimes of omission or commission, but in the army one never knew. Colonels saw or imagined t
hings their own way, according to their own rules. But it couldn’t be very bad or he’d have been told to appear wearing belt and sabre.
In the outer office the adjutant rose to salute him as he entered and Warren said, ‘What does the CO want me for, do you know, Rouse?’
‘He’ll tell you,’ the adjutant said, with a half smile. ‘Go straight in.’
Warren opened the colonel’s door and walked in. ‘You sent for me, sir?’
‘Yes. Sit down, Bateman ...’ The colonel sat back in his big chair behind the big desk. He was a tall burly man with a stubble of grizzled hair on either side of his broad sunburned forehead. He seemed now to be searching for words. At length he said, ‘Damned if I know whether I’m doing you a good turn or the opposite but ... I’ve been ordered to find an officer for posting to the Ravi Lancers as second-in-command and I’ve selected you. You stand a good chance of getting command soon, because Colonel Hanbury must be near the age limit.’
‘The Ravi Lancers?’ Warren said, startled. ‘States Forces?’
‘Yes. The Rajah heard that we’d got anthrax and offered his Lancers to replace us as Divisional Cavalry in the Hindustan Division . . .’
‘I bet that was the Yuvraj’s idea,’ Warren exclaimed.
‘Eh? I don’t know, but the Chief must have advised the Viceroy to accept, because it’s been done ... They’re an efficient lot, as States Forces go. We all saw quite a bit of them on cold weather manoeuvres, but mind, it’s what is under the surface that matters and there I expect they’re what one would expect--discipline and interior economy shaky, plenty of bhai bundi and baksheesh ... and the Brahmin more powerful than the CO.’
Warren said, ‘I am surprised at GHQ deciding to send a States Force regiment overseas, instead of putting them on the Frontier here, and calling down, say, the Guides to replace us.’
The colonel said, ‘I agree. But frankly, I think we’re laying up trouble for ourselves in sending any Indian troops to France at all. It’s a white man’s war, and they’ll learn to kill white men. The sepoys and sowars are going to meet white women very different from memsahibs. They’re going to see things it would be just as well for all concerned that they should never see. Even the most loyal of them are going to return here questioning, wondering ... Well, all that’s in the future. For now I’ll just give you some advice. If you don’t want these Ravi fellows to run away the moment a German says boo to them ... or land you with the regimental funds embezzled ... or lie around smoking bhang when they ought to be inspecting stables ... or bribe the dafadars for small favours ... you’re going to have to drive them, take no excuses, show no mercy, right from the beginning. These people are not our Indians, but the Indians as they were before we came, the Indians we walked all over at Plassey and Laswarrie ... individually brave, often enough, but idle, corrupt, self-seeking, vicious when your back’s turned. Frankly, how in blazes you’re going to manage it after Colonel Hanbury goes, I don’t know. That’s the bad side of the job. The good side is that you’ll be promoted major at once, and, as I said, stand a good chance of replacing Colonel Hanbury soon.’