Three Plays

by Gurcharan Das

  9. Gurcharan Das. India Unbound: From Independence to the Global Information Age. New Delhi: Penguin Books, 2002, p. 282.

  LARINS SAHIB

  Larins Sahib won the Sultan Padamsee Prize in 1968, offered by the Theatre Group, Bombay. It was first produced by Deryck Jeffereis at the Bhulabhai Theatre, Bombay in July 1969, with the following cast:

  Henry Hardinge

  Anthony Dale

  Fredrick Currie

  Bomi Kapadia

  H.M. Elliot

  Keith Stevenson

  Henry Lawrence

  Zul Vellani

  Sher Singh

  Roger C.B. Pereira

  Dalip Singh

  Ranjit Chowdhry

  Baba

  Minoo Chhoi

  Rani Jindan Kaur

  Farida Sonavala

  Sardar Lal Singh

  Bell deSouza

  Sardar Tej Singh

  Francis A. Menezes

  Lt. Herbert Edwardes

  Cyrus Bharucha

  Capt. James Abbot

  Homi Mulla

  Lt. Harry Lumsden

  Yohan Jeffereis

  ‘Go out’, said the Hero-makers

  and the men behind them. ‘Be

  another Henry Lawrence. Do

  your duty … and if necessary die …’

  MICHAEL EDWARDES, The Necessary Hell

  Characters

  [In order of appearance]

  Act One Scene 1

  The Governor-General’s camp on the banks of the Sutlej, halfway between Lahore and Delhi. It is 20 March 1846, a month after the battle of Sobraon, better known as the First Sikh War. Hardinge, Currie and Elliot are present inside a tent. A half hidden coolie is drowsily pulling the cord of the swaying punkah. In the far right-hand corner are a number of hammock-like chairs with arm-pieces to rest weary legs. They have an attachment screwed on to the right arm-piece which swings out to hold a glass. Hardinge has a glass of brandy in one hand and a cigar in another. Currie and Elliot look on solicitously.

  HARDINGE: Where the devil is Lawrence?

  ELLIOT: He should be here any minute, sir.

  HARDINGE: What the devil is the time?

  ELLIOT: Eleven o’clock, sir.

  HARDINGE: Currie, what about the Peshawar despatch?

  CURRIE: Yes, it’s come in, sir. I am afraid, sir, there’s …

  HARDINGE: (Interrupting.) Koi hai?

  ELLIOT: I’ll get it, sir.

  (Replaces Hardinge’s glass.)

  HARDINGE: Yes, carry on, Currie.

  CURRIE: I am afraid there’s bad news, sir.

  HARDINGE: What?

  CURRIE: From the border.

  HARDINGE: Which one?

  CURRIE: Frontier, sir. Peshawar.

  HARDINGE: Oh!

  (Pause.)

  Damn these bloody tribes! Damn this bloody country. Damn the whole world …

  (Pause.)

  This brandy’s no good.

  ELLIOT: It’s recently come in from London, sir. Travellers’.

  HARDINGE: It’s the devilish air then. Everything in India is second-rate. Even travellers’ best becomes second-rate in India.

  CURRIE: Even the men become second-class in India, sir.

  HARDINGE: What sort of a bloke is Lawrence?

  ELLIOT: Never seen him myself. But I’m told he’s quite a character.

  CURRIE: One can hardly credit what one sees, sir.

  (Mockingly.)

  He is practically a native. If I may say so sir, I think his younger brother, John, is more the sort of person you need for this job.

  HARDINGE: How many Lawrences are there in the Punjab?

  ELLIOT: Three, sir.

  HARDINGE: Good God! Who’s the Lawrence of the Punjab?

  ELLIOT: Henry, I believe, sir.

  HARDINGE: Are you sure?

  ELLIOT: Yes, sir.

  HARDINGE: Damn it, we don’t want the wrong man. Who’s this younger one—what’s his name?

  CURRIE: John, sir.

  HARDINGE: Why is he better?

  CURRIE: He’s a regular sort, you know. Civil servant, Haileybury, efficient, proven record, very Christian, proper, doesn’t mix with the natives …

  HARDINGE: (Interrupting.) What makes you think we need a ‘regular sort?’

  CURRIE: (Confused.) Well, well … ah, we always need regular sorts.

  HARDINGE: What do you think, Elliot?

  ELLIOT: Well sir, the reputation of this man is phenomenal.

  HARDINGE: Which man, Elliot?

  ELLIOT: Henry, sir.

  HARDINGE: (Shortly.) Good God, which one is Henry?

  ELLIOT: The Lawrence, sir.

  HARDINGE: Quite, quite. Now Elliot, you were saying?

  ELLIOT: I was saying, sir, that this man has built a phenomenal reputation. Just two years on the border as a minor clerk with the Revenue Survey, and he’s become a legend. I believe he’s on first-name terms with most of the nobility of the Punjab. They swear by him, and the peasantry of the Ferozepur district think he’s some kind of a saviour.

  HARDINGE: Is he a soldier?

  ELLIOT: Yes, sir.

  HARDINGE: What’s his rank?

  ELLIOT: Major, sir. But he’s been due a promotion for some time.

  CURRIE: Precisely, sir. You can’t appoint such a junior man to this post. Why, you’ll be superseding half the British Army and alienating the whole British establishment.

  HARDINGE: Hang the British establishment!

  (Lawrence enters. He is forty years old, but looks younger, has a long, brooding face, some grey hairs, and a Van Dyck beard. He stands five feet ten, very light in build—almost a lathy figure. He doesn’t look a soldier. He wears his regimental uniform, but not smartly; his boots could be better polished; his hair could be better combed. His face is burnt almost as black as a native’s and, but for his uniform, he might be easily mistaken for a North Indian. Altogether, his appearance in the Governor-General’s Darbar has shattered the brandy-and-elevenses atmosphere and the occupants of the room look suspiciously as if they are about to receive a stranger from another land and not one of their own race.)

  ELLIOT: Mr Henry Lawrence, sir.

  (Pause.)

  HARDINGE: (Looking helpless.) Oh. Well, I’m blessed.

  LAWRENCE: (Quite at ease.) Sir?

  HARDINGE: What’s the meaning of this, man? Just look at you.

  (Pointing at him.)

  Did you sleep in these clothes?

  CURRIE: (Mockingly.) Perhaps Mr Lawrence did not find time to change, sir.

  HARDINGE: If I didn’t need you, young man, I would have you shipped back home at once.

  LAWRENCE: Sir …

  HARDINGE: Why, this is disgraceful. You look like a bloody native. Your hair needs cutting. Your boots need shining, your shirt needs buttons—(Softly.)

  I hope your breeches stay up.

  CURRIE: (Contemptuously.) Your Excellency, we should be thankful that

  Mr Lawrence is at least wearing his regimental colours. Normally, I am told, he finds native dress more comfortable.

  HARDINGE: (Astonished.) What? … what, what, brandy! Elliot, some brandy … Koi hai? (Elliot replaces Hardinge’s tumbler.)

  LAWRENCE: May I sit down, sir?

  HARDINGE: Certainly. (Realizing.)

  What, what?

  LAWRENCE: Thank you, sir.

  HARDINGE: Quite, quite.

  (Pause.)

  Vile stuff

  (Takes another swig.)

  … Elliot bring the Punjab brief.

  (Elliot does so.)

  Tch, tch.

  (Muttering.)

  Messy business, the Punjab.

  LAWRENCE: Sir?

  HARDINGE: Lawrence, you’ve been in the Punjab longer than probably anyone I know. What do you think of the Treaty of Lahore we signed last week?

  LAWRENCE: What treaty?

  (Quick glances between Hardinge, Currie, and Elliot.)

  HARDINGE: Come on man
, you haven’t heard of the Treaty of Lahore?

  Currie, didn’t you send him a copy?

  CURRIE: There was no time, sir. It was signed on Tuesday afternoon and Mr Lawrence had already left by Friday.

  HARDINGE: Read then, Currie. Read.

  CURRIE: What, sir?

  HARDINGE: The document, of course.

  CURRIE: (Produces a parchment and begins to read.) ‘Whereas on this ninth day of March in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty-six, The Honourable East India Company …’

  HARDINGE: Just sum it up. Currie.

  CURRIE: (Clears throat, slightly flustered.) Ahem!

  (Pause.)

  HARDINGE: Come on.

  CURRIE: By the Treaty of Lahore, the Sikh Kingdom surrenders, in full, sovereignty of the territory, hill and plain, lying between the Sutlej and Beas rivers.

  (Hardinge beams triumphantly.)

  Two, agrees to pay one and a half crores of rupees indemnity as expenses of the war.

  LAWRENCE: (Whistles in astonishment.) Whew! They’ll never be able to pay that! Their soldiers haven’t been paid for six months.

  CURRIE: Mr Lawrence, you have been asked to listen to the treaty and not comment on the Governor-General’s political policy.

  (Bland smile.)

  May I continue?

  HARDINGE: Go on, Currie.

  CURRIE: (Reading.) Three, reduction of the Sikh army to 20,000 infantry and 12,000 cavalry; four, surrender of 36 guns apart from those captured in the campaign; five, control of the rivers Beas and Sutlej to the confluence of the Indus at Mithankot.

  LAWRENCE: Unthinkable! They could never keep these terms.

  HARDINGE: Why not?

  LAWRENCE: These’re much too harsh.

  HARDINGE: Quite. Now let’s not get unpleasant, Lawrence. Quite.

  Have a drink. Here’s to the Punjab!

  (All—except for Lawrence—drink a toast.)

  Splendid.

  (Pause.)

  Tell us, Lawrence, when did the old boy pop off?

  LAWRENCE: ‘Old boy?’

  HARDINGE: What do they call him? The two-eyed Lion?

  LAWRENCE: The One-eyed Lion. You mean the late Maharaja Ranjit Singh of the Punjab.

  HARDINGE: Quite, quite.

  LAWRENCE: He died in 1839, sir.

  HARDINGE: Quite, that’s seven years ago.

  LAWRENCE: (Smiling.) Quite.

  HARDINGE: What, what. Quite, quite, quite. What sort of a chap was he?

  LAWRENCE: (Smiling.) ‘The old boy?’

  HARDINGE: Yes.

  LAWRENCE: He was the greatest ruler Hindustan has known.

  CURRIE: Apart from the British of course.

  (Lawrence smiles back.)

  CURRIE: (Contemptuously.) It would appear that Mr Lawrence’s romantic admiration for the late ruler of the Punjab makes him lose perspective.

  LAWRENCE: On the contrary.

  CURRIE: (Taunting.) Perhaps he will accord some of that admiration to the military record of the East India Company in India.

  LAWRENCE: I have the highest admiration for the Company’s record. There’s a difference, however, between greatness and military records.

  HARDINGE: (Bursting out.) Touché, what!

  CURRIE: (Triumphantly.) Tell us then, Mr Lawrence, why the ‘mighty’ kingdom of the ‘great’ Maharaja fell three weeks ago?

  HARDINGE: Yes, yes, Lawrence. That’s a bit of puzzle to us. I, for one, never dreamt we’d be in the Punjab so quickly.

  LAWRENCE: I don’t think it has fallen.

  ELLIOT: But they’ve signed the peace treaty.

  LAWRENCE: (Coldly.) Treaties are meant to be broken. They are not a beaten people yet.

  (Softly.)

  When their army is betrayed by their own leaders, it is hardly a feather in our cap.

  CURRIE: Neither is it a cause for regret.

  LAWRENCE: Nor a cause for joy—for a fairly fought battle would have resulted differently.

  HARDINGE: Elliot, how many men did we lose?

  ELLIOT: Final figures are not yet in, sir.

  HARDINGE: Quite. But why has the Punjab kingdom come to this end?

  CURRIE: Very simple, sir. It’s clearly a matter of racial superiority. Every pagan power, no matter how formidable in appearance, must succumb to the civilizing mission of the white races.

  HARDINGE: Lawrence?

  (Pause. Lawrence doesn’t seem to have heard. He appears lost in his own thoughts.)

  Come on, man.

  LAWRENCE: (Realizing.) Sir?

  HARDINGE: What do you have to say?

  LAWRENCE: (Matter-of-factly.) I don’t think it’s as simple as that. Ranjit Singh died seven years ago. Since his death there’s been chaos everywhere and a fierce struggle for succession. The Sardars have been quarrelling like dogs. And Understandably, sir. For he not only created the Punjab from a mass of petty states—in fact his personality united the kingdom. He established no institutions which could live after him. When he died, the Punjab died.

  CURRIE: Mr Lawrence seems to have become a true Oriental: he argues through the method of contradiction.

  LAWRENCE: I don’t contradict myself. Ranjit Singh is not dead.

  CURRIE: Perhaps he’s been on a holiday? (Bland smile.)

  LAWRENCE: He still lives in the hearts of the people. It only needs a leader to conjure his memory and rally the people round him. That’s why, sir, I think such punitive terms should not be imposed and the dignity of this land should be preserved.

  CURRIE: I find no dignity among people who eat with their hands.

  LAWRENCE: (Continuing.) A strongly independent Punjab will be our best buffer against the loose, unruly hordes of Central Asia. Our treaty terms deny the possibility of any stable native government. Who will rule the Darbar under these conditions?

  HARDINGE: (Smugly.) The British Government doesn’t wish to interfere in the internal affairs of the Lahore Darbar.

  LAWRENCE: But that’s exactly what we’re doing, sir.

  HARDINGE: Damn it, all right; but we do not intend the Punjab to be an independent state. The young Prince must be under our protection, and do our bidding.

  LAWRENCE: What about his mother, sir?

  HARDINGE: That tart!

  LAWRENCE: I beg your pardon?

  HARDINGE: She … she’s your headache. Mind you, Lawrence, she’s spirited as no other woman I’ve seen. You’ll have to watch her closely. If there’s trouble in the Punjab, she’s bound to be behind it.

  LAWRENCE: I watch her, sir?

  HARDINGE: Yes, Lawrence.

  (Gets up. Lawrence follows; Hardinge looks for the orders and hands them over to Lawrence ceremoniously.)

  In consideration of your generous services in the Punjab, in view of your knowledge of the North-West territories, I, Henry Hardinge, the Right Honourable Governor-General of India and her Majesty’s Most Honourable Privy Council hereby appoint you Agent of the Honourable East India Company to the Government of His Highness Dalip Singh, the son of Maharaja Ranjit Singh.

  (Pause. Looks at Lawrence whose head is lowered.)

  Come man, show some sign of life. You’re promoted to the Residentship … the destiny of the entire North-West is now in your hands.

  LAWRENCE: About the one and a half crores, they can’t pay it.

  HARDINGE: Good God! I know they can’t.

  LAWRENCE: Then why …

  HARDINGE: Because if they’re unable to pay, they will have to cede all territory between rivers Beas and Indus including Kashmir and Hazara. (Almost stealthily.)

  This I figure to be worth about one and a half crores.

  LAWRENCE: Sir, of all the …

  HARDINGE: That will be enough, Mr Lawrence. (Gets up.)

  Good luck in Lahore. Anything you would like?

  LAWRENCE: Yes, sir. I would like to select my own officers.

  HARDINGE: What … yes, yes. I think we can arrange that, Elliot. I must run along. Good luck, Lawrence. Conduct yourself
like a gentleman and don’t kill more natives than you can help. (Exit.)

  (Lights fade, as Hardinge marches out to the sound of the Bengal Infantry March. Remaining characters move away towards stage right. Lights return to suggest a more democratic atmosphere in which Elliot, Currie, and Lawrence are talking. Scene is the same.)

  CURRIE: (Derisively.) What gems of the Indian Empire can we offer the next Ranjit Singh?

  (Pause. Lawrence doesn’t answer. Instead he turns around as if he is looking for someone.)

  Mr Lawrence, I am talking to you.

  LAWRENCE: (Feigning surprise.) Oh!

  CURRIE: Who’re you looking for?

  LAWRENCE: (Innocently.) Ranjit Singh.

  CURRIE: (Angrily.) We have a clown to contend with, Elliot, in addition to an Oriental. Mr Lawrence, the days of Clive, Hastings and the Nabobs are gone. This is the age of administering India. India is no more one great adventure. We need regular sorts, not charlatans.

  ELLIOT: (Appeasingly.) Ah, ah, what sort of men would you like, Mr Lawrence?

  CURRIE: Probably natives!

  LAWRENCE: As a matter of fact I did have a native officer in mind.

  CURRIE: (Shocked.) What?

  LAWRENCE: His name is Sher Singh, the son of Chattar Singh of Attari, who was governor of the North-West Frontier districts under His late Highness. He comes from one of the leading Sikh families. I’ve known him for five years, and he’s a capable young man.

  (Sher Singh quietly enters and sits down unceremoniously beside Lawrence. He looks on with a matter-of-fact air.)

  CURRIE: (As if he has seen a ghost.) What’s that?

  LAWRENCE: (Calmly.) What’s what?

  CURRIE: (Horrified.) That!

  LAWRENCE: (Quietly.) That is Sher Singh.

  CURRIE: How nice! How nice to meet you Mr Sher Singh …

  SHER SINGH: (Correcting.) Sardar Sher Singh.

  CURRIE: (Astonished.) What?

  LAWRENCE: (Explaining.) Not ‘Mister’ but ‘Sardar’ Sher Singh.

  CURRIE: How nice, ‘Sardar’ Sher Singh. Now kindly get out.

  LAWRENCE: (Firmly.) He will go out with me.

  CURRIE: Come on, Elliot. I think we’re only crowding Mr Lawrence’s style.

  (They turn to leave.)

  Ah, I’ve a young man, Lumsden, who I’d like you to take along.