‘Bill’ is represented well in other ways. For example, he’s strikingly polite to the mess staff, bookending the most trivial request with ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. He’s also an outstanding probationer. On one practice operation, he’s given the role of dacoit leader and hunted by colleagues through the hills round Nasik. Despite the logistical advantages the ‘police’ enjoy, ‘Bill’ eludes capture, turning himself in only long after the rest of his gang has been captured and his pursuers have returned to base. True, ‘Bill’ spoils his success by ‘smirking’, but Kumar’s nonetheless impressed, as he is once again when his fellow-cadet completes an assault course – under live fire, for God’s sake – in record time. After graduation, ‘Bill’ carries many of these qualities into his police work. He even runs up to the fort overlooking Satara in five minutes, not the fifteen of Modak’s memoir. And contradicting Sentinel’s account of Bill’s lazy exploitation of Gaikwad to carry him over the stream, No Place records how ‘Bill’ once walked crosscountry for two miles in his stockings, in order to surprise some saboteurs. Time and again, furthermore, the novel emphasises his personal courage during the pursuit of the Parallel Government.
Indeed, Kumar’s relationship with ‘Bill’ in Satara is initially far less conflictual than the corresponding one in Sentinel. It’s ‘Bill’ who supplies the tip which enables his subordinate to arrest a notorious dacoit, providing the newly qualified ASP with his first major professional success. While several raids which they mount together end disappointingly, in this narrative the failures are clearly joint ones. Also starkly contrasting with Modak’s memoir, there’s acknowledgement that his colleague achieved considerable success against the Parallel Government (thereby justifying the award of real-life Bill’s Indian Police Medal). Look here: immediately before ‘Bill’s’ transfer from Satara, Kumar ruefully acknowledges that ‘the other Sub-Divisions are free of sabotage activity while all the gangsters have come over to mine.’
Very dishearteningly, however, this success is accounted for by his comrade’s brutal methods. No Place refers to one incident, not recorded in Sentinel, in a place called Kumtha. Capturing someone suspected of sheltering dissidents, ‘Bill’ begins to ‘beat him on the buttocks with a bharmappa [a stiffened piece of leather with a handle attached] in front of all the villagers. Priya howled and yelled, but did not disclose anything. Pryce-Jones then made him lie down flat on the floor and began to beat him with the edge of the bharmappa. He had a theory that it hurt more.’ The beating only stops when Kumar protests that enough is enough. After quarrelling with ‘Bill’ over his cruelty, the still-protesting subordinate storms back alone to Satara. I get up and check my map. Yes, Kumtha’s a real village in the southern part of the district.
The narrative of ‘Bill’s’ violence is shocking. Nonetheless it feels less damaging than the allegations in Sentinel, for three reasons. First, ‘only’ a single individual is beaten by the character in the novel. Second, the violence employed by the Parallel Government both precedes ‘Bill’s’ and is much more extreme, echoing Modak’s remarks yesterday afternoon. The novel also repeats his claims about the gratuitous killing of the train crew, and follows it with a graphic description of the thrashing of a suspected informer. After several warm-up blows, the unfortunate victim is ‘roughly upended’ and his feet tied together. A ‘gangster’ begins
to beat him on the soles with a stick slowly and rhythmically. After a few strokes, Thakur began to howl and yell but the gangsters continued the beating. Thakur defecated. The gangsters poured a bucket of water over him, but continued the beating. The villagers watched all round without uttering a word, until one of them said, ‘He seems to have fainted.’ But still the dhup-dhup of the beating went on.
The assailants only desist when even a woman whom Thakur has supposedly victimised protests that any more and they’ll ‘murder’ the now unconscious man.
Above all, ‘Bill’s’ behaviour seems slightly less reprehensible here because his Indian colleague is himself clearly complicit in police violence. Whereas Sentinel denies any such involvement on Modak’s part, early in the novel Kumar witnesses a constable using the bharmappa on a prisoner: ‘Shiva was held by two policemen in the posture of a public school boy getting six of the best.’ This beating, however, continues for fully fifteen minutes. Although he throws up later, the ASP doesn’t intervene at the time, despite knowing such methods are strictly prohibited by the Police Manual. Indeed, Kumar’s subordinates are later allowed to justify their brutality as follows: ‘ “What other kind of interrogation could have helped in getting Shiva to admit the offence? … What choice have we? If we can’t detect cases, we’re branded as inefficient.” ’ Further, it’s notable that while arresting the nationalist leader, the pinnacle of his career in Satara, Kumar himself administers several blows to an obstructive henchman.
So the novel makes it clear that the culture of police violence which Kumar belatedly complains about long preceded ‘Bill’s’ arrival in the district. Significantly, when he first witnesses the use of the bharmappa on a suspect, Kumar steels himself because he ‘remembered how another ASP had cried when he had seen a similar interrogation, and how he was ever afterwards branded as a weak and soft officer.’ Here’s something else. No Place harps on the pressure exerted by successive inspector-generals to end disturbances which were beginning to pose a serious threat to British rule. But if a green light had been given to use extreme measures against the dissidents, why did Bill intervene against the rogue Sub-Inspector Walawalkar and on behalf of the tortured woman in Tasgaon?
Something else also unsettles me Modak’s half-admiring, half-deprecating insistence on his colleague’s womanising. I picked up on my host’s ambiguous tone when he referred to Bill’s ‘lady friend’ during our meeting. Now I see that Sentinel comments: ‘As for the ladies, they were all charmed with his “shy” smile and his boyish behaviour.’ He’s also represented as having an eye for Indian village beauties.
Beryl Grey, one of Bill’s ‘girl-friends in India’
In the novel such hints are developed. ‘Bill’s’ ‘shy, naïve smile’ particularly charms the DSP’s wife, who becomes tongue-tied when talking about him. His relations with Indian women are more troubling, however. While at the PTS, ‘Bill’ has an affair with the servant of a colleague – much to Kumar’s horror. It’s not clear whether the protagonist’s disgusted by ‘Bill’ sleeping with a low-caste woman, or the crossing of racial barriers, or – by contrast – whether he objects to the unequal power relations involved. Later, ‘Bill’ plans to sleep with another Indian woman while spending the night at a colleague’s. The woman mistakenly goes to the wrong end of the veranda and gets into bed with his fellow-officer, an orthodox Brahmin, whose scandalised protests abort the tryst. Neither Kumar nor his creator appear to appreciate what strikes me as the obviously farcical nature of the scene. In another incident with similar comic potential, ‘Bill’ offers the recently married Kumar some man-to-man advice about how to keep his wife happy, leaving the young Indian ASP boggling haughtily at his colleague’s worldliness.
I spend hours trying to square Modak’s two accounts of Bill. Given the strongly documentary feel of No Place, I can’t help inferring that the older author edited his memoir to Bill’s disadvantage, for reasons which I can’t fathom. What is the relative truth status of each text, one apparently fictional, the other non-fiction. It’s a problem much debated in autobiography criticism? Didn’t Richard Steele famously claim that ‘the word Memoir is French for a novel’? And Paul de Man once commented that ‘the distinction between fiction and autobiography is not an either/or polarity but one that it is undecidable.’ Yet I have no reason to distrust the thrust of Modak’s descriptions of Bill’s behaviour towards suspected supporters of the Parallel Government, whether in real life or fictional guise. It’s dawn before my heartache soothes enough to let me fall asleep.
It feels as if I’ve only just dropped off when my mobile rings. It’s Rajeev
, bright and enthusiastic.
‘Well, did you find him? Are you alright?’ he adds as I struggle to collect myself. To my surprise, I’m chilled to the bone.
‘It’s been a bit depressing, to be honest, Rajeev. He gave me his memoir. Very negative about my father.’ I relate the gist.
It’s his turn to hesitate. ‘But as I said, Modak’s a bitter man.’
‘Doesn’t make it any easier.’
‘My friend, how are the other British represented?’
The penny drops. Bill, Hobson, Mountain, Smith, Yates are variously lazy, incompetent, bullying, sticklers for pointless rules or a combination of these qualities.
‘There you are, then. He never forgave the Raj for dismissing his father.’
I recall Modak’s line in Sentinel just before the Satara episode ends: ‘I have no love lost to the British because they were unfair to me and unfair to my father.’
‘Why didn’t Modak resign, if he felt so strongly? They were very tough times, my friend, and required firm measures. I told you what the Patri Sarkar got up to. Some of those saboteurs were fifth columnists, they tried to make contact with the Japanese … Remember Gandhi himself condemned them.’
It’s little consolation, and I tell him so.
‘So what are you going to do now?’ Rajeev asks uncertainly.
‘I’m supposed to have dinner with the Modaks this evening. But I’m not sure I’ll go.’
‘Do so, my friend, I beg you, you may find out other things. Don’t be put off by his crankiness.’ Discomfited by my silence, Rajeev tries another tack. ‘You know why he wrote that memoir? Get hold of J.F. Rebeiro’s Bullet for Bullet. See what his colleagues thought about Modak. Rebeiro claimed he was a coward, and riot-prone. Sentinel’s his apologia.’
‘What?’
‘Everywhere Modak went, especially when he was in charge of policing Kashmir, controversy and commissions of inquiry followed. Does he write about that?’
‘I’ve only read the stuff about Satara. But he can’t have been that bad if he finished up as top cop in Maharashtra.’
‘My friend, if you stick around long enough, you get there eventually. Isn’t it the same in your profession?’
I make a mental note to read on in Sentinel when I’ve got the energy.
‘Make sure you keep me informed about your movements. Anything I can do, just let me know. Oh, and when you see him, ask Modak to identify the other cadets in that photo I gave you. That would be a big help to me.’
‘Will do. If I go … By the way, any news of Poel?’
‘He isn’t back yet. I’ll keep trying.’
‘Thanks, Rajeev,’ I respond wearily.
‘No dark thoughts, now,’ he encourages gently. ‘Ask yourself why your father won the Indian Police Medal if everything Modak says is true.’
I need time to think. Unsure whether I’ll be able to face the Modaks later, I eventually phone, complaining of a stomach bug. Kiron answers, warm and sympathetic.
‘You must be careful about the water, even in the good hotels. There’s a good pharmacist near you. Do you want me to ring them and have something sent over? Try to rest and if you feel better, give me a ring this afternoon. I’d love to get your advice on something.’
Putting the phone down, I’m suddenly sick of my whole trip. If I could get back to England today, it wouldn’t be too soon. I’ve been away rather less than a fortnight, yet it feels as if my life’s been turned upside down. My room shrinks like a cell. I’ve got to get out. On the spur of the moment, I decide to bring forward my visit to nearby Yeravda, where Gandhi was imprisoned after his ‘Quit India’ speech – the event which precipitated the Satara uprising.
Before going down to breakfast, I wander over to the window and look onto the street. An auto-rickshaw’s revving up, exhaust clouding the chilly morning air. Across the street a knot of onlookers has gathered on the pavement, breath steaming. It’s a violent shock to see them bending over the old man from the night before, his body now shrouded head to toe in a blanket. A policeman makes notes languidly. It’s no doubt my own sense of vulnerability which generates the raging sense of guilt which suddenly overtakes me. Did the poor fellow die of cold while I lay on the bed, sweating over my petty concerns?
It’s a surprise to discover that Gandhi’s ‘prison’ was actually a palace belonging to the legendarily wealthy Aga Khan, leader of the Ismaili sect. It’s an enormous three-storeyed wedding cake, icing-sugar-white, with Moorish lancet arches, its extensive grounds an oasis after the turbulent inner city. Surrounding it are cooling stands of flame tree and jacaranda, leaves filamented like fish skeletons, clumps of graceful oleander and blushing hibiscus. On the ground floor, Gandhi’s rooms are closed off by glass screens. So it was from here that he denounced the Parallel Government. I wonder what Bill thought about his intervention? In his bedroom are a wafer-thin mattress, spinning wheel, writing materials, bookcase, red carpet, overlooked by a portrait of the Mahatma cradling his ill, white-haired wife, Kasturba. Next door, the austere white-tiled bathroom looks like it hasn’t been touched since his release. A simple pair of sandals lies in one dusty corner. Hard to tell whether husband’s or wife’s.
There’s an extremely peaceful, meditative atmosphere, enhanced by the absence of other visitors. In the hush, I try to internalise the meaning of Gandhi’s attachment to non-violence, an attachment so intense that he was prepared to condemn an insurgency as passionately committed as himself to India’s freedom. I know from his autobiography how hard Gandhi tried to comprehend and empathise with his opponents, while pursuing his conceptions of truth and justice with inflexible determination. It’s deeply moving to connect such values to the sacrifices he made for them right here. In his portrait, the eyes remain warm, mischievous and lively despite his evident grief for Kasturba, who was soon to die, still a prisoner. The British attempt to isolate him suddenly strikes me as not only unjust, but ludicrous. Gandhi’s spirit was the source of his power and it must have percolated, an untameable will-o’-the-wisp, through the keyhole of the padlock on his door.
Behind the palace, two huge urns contain the couple’s ashes. As I contemplate them, the world suddenly clicks back in gear. I’m not to blame for my father’s alleged behaviour, nor am I responsible for the death of the old man on the pavement. Perhaps being here also prompts my reconsideration of Modak as the morning wears on, the attempt to see things from his point of view. I can only sympathise with his disgust at police brutality, however tardy his protests might have been. Most of all, I’m struck increasingly by the ambivalence beneath his memoir’s hyper-confident narratives of the brilliant policeman, the ardent and persuasive lover, the moral scourge of the British. His position was probably untenably awkward. As an Indian, Modak could never be fully part of the Raj, however much he might once have wanted to be. The nameplate on his gate, inscribed ‘IP’ rather than the post-Independence ‘IPS’ (Indian Police Service) suggests a lingering identification with the Raj, as does the interior of his home and Christian faith. But although he disclaims any direct experience of racism on the part of his British fellow-officers, and even though power had been nominally devolved to a Congress government in Bombay before war broke out, the system remained structurally racist. Otherwise Bill’s colleague Kamte would have had no need to be on guard against slights in the way described in From Them to Us.
According to Sentinel, an Englishman could join the IP with O-levels, while Indian candidates had to have degrees. The viceroy could still declare war on Germany and Japan over the heads of the elected legislatures, and heap insult on injury with the totalitarian Defence of India Rules. Most of the 100,000 people detained alongside Gandhi were held without trial. And even if the British men Modak met ostensibly treated him as an equal, their female counterparts sometimes didn’t, as both his texts complain. How much was Kumar’s ‘inferiority complex’ an individual personality trait, how much a product of contact with the British? To this degree, he reminds me of his n
amesake, Hari Kumar in Paul Scott’s Raj Quartet, although Scott’s character is far more tragic – and far less autobiographical – than Modak’s.
At the same time, as Rajeev also intimated, Modak would inevitably have been regarded as something of an outsider to Indian society. It was doubtless bad enough to be from a family that had disavowed its Brahmin roots; as a policeman, he’d have been strongly identified with the ever more unpopular Raj. He must have felt increasingly vulnerable from 1942, as the Parallel Government stepped up its attacks on perceived collaborators. If, as seemed likely then, Britain was to lose the war and India fell to the Japanese, a sorry fate almost certainly awaited functionaries of the ancien régime. At the end of the war, his prospects couldn’t have seemed bright, what with Independence on the horizon. His real political beliefs in the 1940s remain unclear. In both books, the Parallel Government is occasionally represented almost as a liberation movement, social as well as political, directing its attacks as much against landowners and moneylenders as the Raj. As an Indian, he must surely have felt at least some identification with their aims? In the novel, Kumar’s sister is questioned by the police on suspicion of aiding the underground. It’s hard to know if this is fact, or a fiction which nonetheless expresses Modak’s own feelings at the time. Or does it express a convenient retrospective change of heart by someone who had to make his way in post-Raj India?
I wonder too why Modak’s father, the District Magistrate, was dismissed, and when. Perhaps that was decisive in recalibrating his son’s vision of the Raj. The sour way Modak sometimes represents Bill (and other British colleagues) might be consistent with that, even if professional rivalry wasn’t involved. Perhaps, justifiably, Modak also felt he’d been unfairly marginalised following his complaints about tactics, as indicated by his ignorance about the secret Memorandum Bill supposedly wrote. Maybe the memoir simply reflects the bitterness of old age, with Modak’s reputation under attack from former colleagues like Rebeiro. I sense it’ll be impossible to get to the bottom of it. My academic training reminds me that there’s no such thing as definitive truth in memories, only interpretations of events. As Salman Rushdie observes: ‘Memory … selects, eliminates, alters, exaggerates, minimizes, glorifies, and vilifies also, but in the end it creates its own reality.’
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