In the Shadow of a Dream (17 page)

‘Really! Gosh, I’ll do that.’

‘Yeah. Isn’t Minnie looking smashing with those
kundun
diamond earrings…God look at that bosom. I’d be her bosom pal, any day.’ He laughed.

‘Pritpal? Minnie? What’s her real name?’

‘Menakshi, I think.’

‘No, it’s Meena, or Meena Rajkumari. She’s a princess. Don’t you know?’

Dusty and Pritpal turned round. The speaker was none other than Major Amarjit Singh. ‘Young Dustoor, you must be wondering what happened to me. We last met in the train almost a year ago. Just one of those things. I’ve been in hospital.’

‘Sir. Why? I mean what…gosh, I don’t know what to say. You must think me rude. I passed you a moment ago. Saluted, but didn’t recognise you. Sorry, sir.’

‘Can’t blame you. Next month, back again in hospital. One of those mysterious illnesses that need constant observation. Anyway,’ he offered his hand to Pritpal, ‘this is to welcome you to the regiment.’ They shook hands. Pritpal saluted. Amarjit gave a limp nod, turned and walked away.

‘He’s dying. He’s got a blood disease. Cancer of the blood. Very rare.’

‘You mean, Leukaemia?’

‘Trust you to know the right word, Sam.’

‘And you for gossip and information. Always has been the case.’

‘I listen. I ask. You’re terribly English; stiff-upper lip, all that rot…’ Pritpal broke off. He was looking past Dusty, who frowned and then spun round. ‘What were you ogling at?’ Dusty said.

‘You’ve just missed her.’

‘I don’t believe you!’

‘Honest, just went past you. Turn round. See, it was Minnie. Usually, on such occasions, she chats with the cadets. Today she’s had to entertain the Rajkumari.’

‘Rajkumari? The big woman next to her?’

‘Yes. Nawaraj’s sister. His fat, elder sister…there’s a waiter approaching us, with a book on a silver salver…bet that’s for you.’

‘Yes, I know what it’s about. James Skinner. Sen Gupta doesn’t forget.’

‘No, never. What a guy. With so much on his mind, he still…’

‘D’you think I could slip away? If there’s a letter for me I’d like to…’ Dusty took the book and flipped open the cover. ‘Gosh! It’s brand new. And look!’

Pritpal leant forward and read: ‘ “To Sam. Yours to keep. Jo Sen Gupta”. You know, one can go off a chap.’ He laughed. ‘You can go now, yes, no one’s looking.’

‘Well, all the very best in your future career…which reminds me. Isn’t Amarjit Army Education Corps? And you’re going into the Infantry. The Gurkhas?’

‘He took a transfer. But years ago he was in 4th Gurkhas.’

‘Gosh! That’s John Masters’ Regiment. John Masters? The writer?’

‘Name sounds familiar. Are you saying he’s a serving officer?’

Dusty shook his head. ‘Not any longer. But he was. Thirty-four to forty-eight.’

‘God! What a memory! What are the thirty-nine steps?’

Dusty laughed. ‘I’m not a freak.’

‘Keep in touch.’

‘I’ll try. I’m a terribly lazy correspondent.’

‘If you’re going into a Cavalry
Risala
, the chances of meeting up again are slim. But care 56 APO will reach me, wherever.’

‘Goodbye, good luck, and thanks.’

‘Thanks for what?’

‘Friendship and guidance; and for giving Tiwari something to think about.’

‘That will cost you a bunch of grapes.’

‘Grapes!’

‘Do me a favour. When you get back here. Visit Major Amarjit, on my behalf.’

The letter, postmarked Ullapool, was addressed to G.C. Dusty Dustoor. Sam had been careless. “Dear Boy, We’re here, just for a night, and on our way back to Bute. Muriel drives a nippy MG and a very good driver she is too. Took your advice and got married last Friday. At Gretna Green, to make it special. I’m on the wagon, been exercising, building my strength. Muriel is more than a tonic. She’s an inspiration. She’s asleep now, while I worry about not having told you about the birds and bees. Muriel says I’ve been irresponsible. Will post a book or two. It’ll be better than anything I can say. Sorry old chap. Yours aye, S. Will write at length when we’re back home.”

Dusty wrote back. “Don’t worry about the ‘the birds and the bees’ or books about it. I knew it all before I was seven. Had I not mentioned Asif? A raw teacher was he, while the animals gave lucid demonstrations. Though, I must admit, watching them could have misled me about style, approach and direction. But the boys here soon straightened that out and were no less raw. ‘You miss out on the tits if you do it from the back.’ There’s Tejpore for you. Hope that didn’t shock, but I wanted to spare you the trouble of posting books on what I already know and me the embarrassment of being seen with them. Incidentally, I secretly read your copy of Stopes
Married Love
about three years ago in Bombay. Yours aye, Dusty. PS And now that you’ve let the cat out of the bag, Dusty will do from now on. Sams are one too many. I have rather grown to like Dusty, can’t think why. D”

He was up early, showered, shaved and started packing; then stopped and looked out of the window. It gave him an eerie sensation to stare into an empty and silent campus. Nothing seemed to move; even the winds of yesterday had died down to an isolating stillness. He stepped out and stood next to his favourite chenar tree. Not a leaf moved. Hunger gripped him. He must breakfast before he went back to packing. Then he remembered that with the cadets away, the Mess kitchens would have shut. But surely, the cadets’ canteen, just outside the campus, could at least provide coffee and biscuits! He was about to lock his room when he remembered the letter to Sam, and the something more he needed to add to it. He looked at the letter. There was space for what he wanted to say. He sat down and wrote. “PPS. I forgot Sports Day: Incidentally I won a shield, two cups and a medal. And many thanks for arranging a travel itinerary for my Christmas Hols. Yes, the agents have sent me bookings, and names and addresses. It must have cost you a packet! I’m very grateful, dear, dear generous Sam. I’ll look forward to seeing you next year. Don’t worry about Summer. Planned a hol, Kashi Kapoor and I. You remember “Cash” we called him, because he is filthy rich. Small, curly black hair, heavy glasses, a year junior to me in school. His Dad, businessman with the touch of Midas, has a large bungalow near Ajmer. He’s negotiating to buy an even larger, off some Nawab chappie. It’ll be our base, for touring Rajasthan. Love to you both. D” He addressed and sealed the envelope, chose the most colourful postage stamps he could find from his wallet, shut the suit case, drew the curtains, locked his room and took the short cut to the canteen by crossing the green maidan behind the Wellington Barracks.

The Military Canteen was recently established to serve the needs of married staff and their families. But cadets also shopped there. It had four departments: a general store, a haberdashery, a small café and a bicycle shop; all run by a manager and three assistants. ‘D’you by any chance serve a breakfast of sorts?’ Dusty asked.

The Manager, a chubby, affable Madrasi, expressed surprise at seeing Dusty still around. Dusty explained he had to wait a day to catch his train to Bangalore.

‘Bangalore? Then you’ll be going via Madras. You must spend some time there. As you know Madras is my home town. Wery fine place. Cheap. At station itself, there’s Spencers. For eight annas only you’ll get a plate full of
sambar rice
, best in all Madras.’ He smiled, rolling his head to and fro. ‘Are you vegetarian? No? Arrey then it is not for the likes of you.’

Dusty repeated his question.

‘Sorry, sorry, please to forgive. But I’m afraid no breakfast of any sort. Not coffee even. You can purchase biskoots. But, it mean, buying whole biskoot packet. Scottish good shortbread. Scottish.’

Dusty was hungry, but after eating two biscuits he realised he wanted a hot drink more than anything else and remembered where he could get one. Stuffing the packet in his jacket, he walked down the gravel path, which circled the maidan and the married quarters and aimed for the Guard House, where, off-duty sentries were constantly brewing tea over a kerosene stove. There on one occasion, cold, wet and sheltering from the rain, they gave him a steaming mug of the brew—a mix of tea, milk, sugar and water, cooked to a broth to produce a strong, milky, very sweet tea, just as he had known it as a village lad in Fatehpur. Right now he would gladly share his biscuits with them in return for that hot drink.

Dusty turned the corner into the straight stretch that led to the main gates. There he saw her; and the vision struck him with a damascene impact. Instinctively, his hand went to his lips. Thank God! The soreness and the swelling had gone. She had a dog on a lead, a springer spaniel, which she was chiding for pulling her. So absorbed was she in the dog’s conduct that he was alongside before she looked up and saw him. Her lips parted and her beautiful eyes widened. ‘Good heavens! What are you doing here? I - I mean, why are you still here?’ The start made her loosen her grip of the lead and the dog escaped. ‘Monty! Bad dog! Come back at once! He’s not quite broken in. Oh, Sam! Monty!’

The dog stopped. Turned to face them, barked and scampered on ahead.

‘I’ll get him back for you, Ma’am,’ Dusty said, removing his jacket and dropping it by the side of the path.

‘Oh, can you! That’s sweet of you! Call him Monty. He’s learnt that at least.’ She picked up his jacket, shook the dust off it and resting it across her arm watched him chase after the dog. Dusty dodged and dashed while Monty pranced about excitedly. Then thinking Dusty was playing a game, the dog turned round, rushed, and sprang at him. Dusty caught him deftly in his hands and holding the wriggling dog firmly, took him back to its owner. ‘Thank you Sam. It is Sam? Good.’ She handed the jacket, which he took in his left hand, still keeping a firm grip of Monty under his right arm. ‘And I’ve just realised why you’re here. You poor boy.’ She put the leash back on Monty, and her hands brushed against his wrist, sending an electric current down his spine.

Dusty released the dog. ‘You seem to know a lot about me.’

‘You’ve no home to go to, because your Guardian’s in Scotland. We talk about our cadets. Joe and I. The ones that need our attention.’

He looked at her steadily. His eyes burned. She glanced down at the dog. He had given up seeking attention and was quietly crouching on his belly by her feet.

She looked up again, a little coyly. ‘So, what are you doing about your holidays?’

The dog sat up briskly, barked and began to pull on the leash. ‘Better give him to me ma’am.’ She did. ‘He’s planned a holiday for me. Sam has. I leave for Bangalore, tonight. From there to the Nilgiris. A hill-climbing holiday with Conoor as my base.’

‘I know Conoor. Not far from Ooty. I was at Ooty when Joe was in Staff College. It’s beautiful. The Nilgiris. But what brought you here? To this place, I mean.’

Dusty laughed. ‘In search of breakfast. I hoped for a mug of tea at the Guard…’

‘You poor boy! I’ll give you breakfast. Mittoo, that’s our cook, he’s very used to producing meals at short notice. Yes?’

‘Gosh, ma’am,’ Dusty said clutching his empty stomach. ‘Will it be all right?’

‘Yes, of course. Worried about the general? Don’t be. Joe’s fond of youngsters. He’s a real softie, at home. Besides, it’s important you be fed. The General is master on the parade square, I’m mistress in the home; and I shall tell him how you rescued Monty. You must know the house? Monty! Stop it.’

‘Flagstaff House? Can’t miss it. I’ve bicycled past it many times.’

‘Then let’s hurry. You must be starving. The dining room’s…Monty! Stop.’

‘The room’s being painted. You’ll have to eat in the veranda.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t mean to…don’t mean to pry, but what have you done to your lip?’

‘Last night…midnight, the boys were fooling around. I had to run the gauntlet.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Oh, having to run between two rows of boys who punch you as you…’

‘You mean a kind of punishment. Why? What did you do?’

‘Nothing. Just a silly game.’ He gazed at her. ‘It was worth it.’

She looked away. ‘You’re hiding something from me. Never mind.’

The sentry at the gate of Flagstaff House saluted as they entered, and a boy came out and took the dog from Dusty. ‘The jeep’s gone, which means Joe’s at the golf links.’ She threw herself against the cushions of a cane settee in the veranda. ‘But he always leaves a note. Do sit down, Sam.’ She went to the coffee table and picked up the note, and as she bent down her sari
pallu
fell off her shoulder. She looked up to see Dusty staring straight down her blouse. She covered herself.