Michael Small, Writer: Short Stories: March 2013

April 22, 1945: Calcutta

Even before I screwed my eyes open, I felt a moist cloth slide across my blinding headache. God only knows how grateful I was, sweating there like a pig on that hemp mattress, in spite of the overhead fan whirring. Peering down at me closely was a round, whiskery face, a thick, black bush of a beard and a top-knot of black turban. My first fleeting impression was of a pirate with blacking on his face, the one who tormented and humiliated me at the ceremony of Crossing the Equator.

‘Namaste,’ he said. ‘At last you are awake, yes?’

‘How long have I been lying here?’ My feeble voice sounded reedy.

‘That I don’t know. You see, you give no reply to my knock at your door. They told me downstairs you were sick with the fever, isn’t it. May I offer you a bowl of daal, roti and rice pudding? Please.’

‘Awfully good of you, chum,’ as I struggled to prop myself on an elbow and clear the rasp from my throat, ‘but I’m not so sure I won’t bring it back up. So who are you, then?

‘I belong to the Khalsa as the drop of water forever merges into the ocean.’ In a trice his swarthy stone face melted into a smile.

‘That’s as maybe. But what’s your name? And don’t mention water’ - I sounded whiney now - ‘I really could do with a couple of glasses, but I don’t trust your water and you refuse to serve Indian whiskey.’

‘Good sir, alcoholic beverage is against the law of the Prophet. My name is Namdev Singh at your service, isn’t it. I am the manager of this hotel, the Punjabi Masala.’

‘Can you fetch me those Mepacrine pills over there on the table, there’s a good chap? Just a spot of your confounded malaria.’

‘I know already. How clearly do I see your yellow skin.’

‘And how clearly I feel your bedbugs,’ I thought.

He clicked his fingers at the doorway and nodded. ‘A pot of black tea and pieces of lemon, quickly!’ The presence discreetly standing back turned out to be the skittering young girl I would catch glimpses of in the next few days, avoiding me with downcast chestnut eyes. Later I noticed some nasty disease on her palms, or so I thought. ‘Henna tracing,’ Namdev dismissed with a shrug. ‘It’s the custom. But I don’t permit her out of my sight. Indian men have no respect for women. They are treated like inferior race. Be it so, I marry my pearl to Sikh man of good family. It is better for me.’

‘Beg your pardon, Namdev,’ I laboured to say, my headache still throbbing, my throat parched, ‘how does an arranged marriage sit with the Sikh idea that all people are equal?’

The manager spluttered. When he had recovered his composure and sharp eye, ‘Sir, I remind myself of old English joke. Some are more equal than hoi polloi.’ The gleam of his teeth showed how pleased he was with himself.

It wasn’t the first time during the war that I’d had any dealings with the locals, but it was the first time lying on my back. I felt thoroughly browned off, all of a doodah and pretty vulnerable to old mutton-chops.

A virgin traveller, I’ve been bloody lucky really, all things considered. The war has scarcely touched me. Only had one narrow squeak and that was four days out from our anchorage at Greenock. We lay just inside the submarine nets awaiting further ships to join the convoy. I’d embarked on HMT Windsor Castle, an RAF vessel transporting eight hundred RAF and two hundred and fifty infantry. Any rate, we were treated to some wonderful food, including a six-course luncheon as we steamed up the Clyde. When we finally sailed, August 2, 1941, the formation proved a splendid sight. Our convoy consisted of eighteen troop ships and eleven cargo ships; the escort comprised twelve destroyers, one cruiser and one battleship.

It wasn’t long before the men began to suffer sea-sickness. As the wind freshened, the sea grew choppy and the ship tossed about a good deal in the heavy head sea. Boat stations were allocated and I was put in charge of the raft, since there were not enough life-boats. I still kept my legs but felt a bit shaky in the lower regions, but did manage to keep dinner down.

The convoy was travelling very close together, about a hundred yards distant from one another, zigzagging continually. One of the ratings likened the destroyers rushing hither and thither around the convoy to mother hens scurrying after their chicks. To me, the harum-scarum seemed a likely prelude to panic.

The next day brought thick fog, but no sign of the convoy. At 9.07 pm the Windsor Castle was struck by our sister ship, the Warwick Castle. The whole starboard side was swept away. The hull and deck were cut through just outside my cabin, finishing up about six feet from my window. All hands were ordered on deck port side. For four hours we stood by until one o’clock in the morning, when we were ordered below but not to take off our clothes. Our lifeboats were lost, so for the rest of the voyage to Freetown, we would have to carry our lifebelts. Then we’d be a mere 400 miles from Dakar – enemy territory!

The following day the weather was calmer. The ships had firing practice with ackack guns. All the boys feared we were in a bad danger zone for submarines and there was still no sign of the convoy. What made matters worse, the fog was lifting, making it vital to drop depth charges to prise out suspected submarines.

I remember that first adventure vividly and how shit-scared I really was. I call it ‘adventure’ because up to that moment I was still living a Boys Own fiction. Now I’m sick and tired of all this jingoistic ‘us’ versus ‘them’, good v. evil, black v. white, Christian v. Moslem, Moslem v. Hindu. All very well for propaganda and morale but deadly for the human spirit. Is there no middle way? No compromise? No tolerance? No longer do I have the energy or desire to exclude or sneer at others who hold contrary views, though I confess to easily slipping back into my reptilian brain if their attitudes are dogmatic or implacably one-eyed. There are right bastards in the British army too, who deserve a good punch on the nose; there are Christians so self-righteous that other monotheistic religions are anathema, totally inferior or dependent upon superstition or closed to the light or who turn a blind eye to the horrors of Hitler’s thugs.

This morning I took a dekko at my bruised and battered threepenny notebook in which I sporadically logged some jottings. I’d failed to mention the frequency and degree of danger I sensed or the number of occasions I was wrung through the mill of fear. At times I even sounded blithely gung-ho, as if I was creating my own mythology or believing it. I suppose it was all part of what the officers drummed into us, keeping a stiff upper lip in the face of adversity, show no fear lest you undermine your comrades’ morale. But when your very life is on the line, it’s damn nigh impossible to suppress your fears. Unless, of course, you rev yourself up into a madman by vilifying the enemy.

August 10-13, 1941

Weather good, sea dead calm. Passed islands of Azores, where our destroyers put in for fuel. I win the ship’s mileage sweep – 19 bob. Temperature rising. In drill kit for the first time. Sighted many porpoises throwing themselves out of the water. Final of the deck quoits.

August 17-21, 1941

Anchored in harbour at Freetown, Sierra Leone. Very hot, vegetation very green, lots of rain. Native boats alongside, native youths diving for pennies. Our divers report that the ship is holed in three places below the water line. We already knew this, as throughout the voyage water pumps had been operating. Holes are being cemented up so we can proceed. Repairs carried out by crew from the battleship HMS Vindictive. Mail sent ashore today. I hope it gets home safely and quickly. An oil barge drew alongside and we took in fuel. Arrangements going ahead for a ceremony and subsequent party for Crossing the Equator. King Neptune is definitely coming aboard! Freshwater boat is now alongside, a sure sign that we sail soon. The lifeboats lost in the collision have been replaced by old ones. They certainly look ancient to me. I cannot imagine how on earth we would get them over the ship’s side, let alone lower them down into the sea. These lifeboats are simply ‘at ease’ on the deck! Cheerio, Freetown! Clocks back one hour. We are now about a week’s run from Durban and Cape Town. So better get on to this writing home lark.

September 3-7, 1941

Gun practice takes place on our cruiser, HMS Hawkins. Felt a shiver down my spine when we spied a gigantic shark lazing alongside. Oh boy, what a size! Danger of submarines passed three days out from Cape Town, though possibility of enemy surface raiders. Lurched for three days as the Cape rollers lived up to their name. Went ashore this afternoon. Shops are lovely – you can buy anything, no rationing and no coupons for clothes. Bought three pairs of the most expensive stockings and sent them off to my dearest. Hope she receives them ok. Sent her a cable, which she should receive in two days. Cutting in towards Durban to pick up the other half of the convoy. Where to from there, I know not. Rumours abound. A kindly and generous doctor picked us up in his car for an excellent dinner of samosas and babotie, a spicy shepherd’s pie, and my first glass of sweet wine for aeons. His home three miles out of town was converted from an old slave lodge into an elegant gabled villa with verandahs and a splendid view of Table Mountain. I suffered the desperate pangs of homesickness and absent love when introduced to his charming wife and sweet ten year-old daughter.

September 20, 1941

Too excited to have my dip this morning. We reach our journey’s end – Bombay Harbour. Latest orders: we disembark tomorrow, then proceed to Rest Camp for twenty-four hours, then posted to Quetta. Bloody hot on this ruddy ship!

September 24, 1941

At long last we have docked at Bombay. Volunteered to do the job of assisting an Indian battery get equipped etc before proceeding overseas on active service. Still no letter from my darling. Oh for just a line! Posted a letter off to Mum.

November 3, 1941

Cheers! Cheers! At last I received Blighty mail today – two letters, nos. 1 & 2 from my darling, my first since leaving Britain’s shores in July. Hard at work drawing tentage from the arsenal and licking the camp into shape before the regiment arrives. Boiling hot. My face is all burnt and skinned. Just sent out for some glycerine jelly. My arms and legs are nearly black! Sent off my fifth letter to my beloved, also one to Mum.

December 25, 1941

Spent Xmas day in the desert under canvas. Colonel invites RSM and self to the officers mess for a drink. Lovely surprise – local people from Poona visit camp and give us presents – Xmas cakes, fruit, cigarettes etc. The RSM and myself are regarded as Bona Sahibs. No mail for three weeks – am very worried.

January 26, 1942

Despatch rider brought a parcel. I ripped it apart expecting a letter inside. There was only a brief note. Plus two pairs of socks and sets of underwear. Dreadfully disappointed!

February 2, 1942

Thank god! Received letters 3, 4 and 7 from Val, telling me she was about to send off a parcel of underwear!

July 25, 1942

Bombshell arrived today. At first I couldn’t believe it, simply refused to. I was stunned. I’m a father!! Valerie gave birth to a bonny girl on April 20! I felt utterly ashamed of myself. God knows what Mum would think. Dad too. Probably he’d roll his eyes to the heavens, shake his head, tut-tut and mutter, ‘Typical. I knew he just would.’ He did warn me about doing the right thing by Val and not leaving her in the lurch. But why on earth didn’t the poor girl let me know sooner? Exasperated at first then simmered down. I re-read the letter to find the baby’s name: Corine. Has a lovely poetic ring to it, soft letters and two long syllables. Wonderful news! Hope to God Val’s parents will understand! Coward that I am, do I tell Mum?

August 15, 1942

The situation in India begins to look ugly. Today popped down to Howrah Station but on the way back we were attacked by a gang of stone throwers. Fortunately, no one was seriously hurt. Orders just received stated that if hindered by the Indians in any way we must shoot to kill. Gosh! Thought the Indians were on our side! Yet I hope we get some excitement and so do all the boys. I spent five days scrounging all the stores I could in Calcutta.

January 8, 1943

Just returned from another trip to Calcutta. Results of the bombings were forwarded: two fellows of the field regiment were killed and three in hospital seriously injured. Mum chiding me but has offered our spare front room to Val and the baby. Winchester is a safer refuge than Portsmouth.

October 3, 1943

Arrived at Chittagong. Gosh what heat! Have now established a camp out in the jungle - one hell of a jungle! Rocked to sleep at night by threats of jackals and hyenas.

October 20, 1943

Subjected to our first air raid. Japs flew over on bombing expedition. No serious damage. Lord Louis Mountbatten expected to visit the regiment on 23^rd. Sent letter 20 to Val, reassuring her that I’d definitely be taking her to the altar immediately I got back (God willing!).

November 20, 1943

We left Chittagong by road, a journey of 120 miles, hot and full of dust. The jungle is pretty dense hereabouts – our companions are elephants, tigers, black panthers, snakes and these infernal mosquitoes. You can see the Chin Hills a mere seventeen miles away.

December 7, 1943

Have done a lot of shooting, snipe and duck, a great change from bully beef! Got up a shooting expedition with two sergeants and hired a car. Scored a bulls-eye in antelope country when I brought down a black-spotted cheetah that was really shifting! We skinned it. Hope to send the lovely skin home to Val. Went off on the trail with second-in-command at 11 pm and sat in the jungle until three o’clock in the morning, hoping to bag wild pig. Rotten luck! Walking along in the jungle, we stumbled across a leopard. Literally, only five yards away! Made me quake. Fortunately, it turned away and I began to breathe once more.

January 6, 1944

Arrived in Burma, a very hilly country, thick jungle, swamps everywhere. Weather still incredibly hot. Chasing the Japs further back.

January 19, 1944

Moved up and over a pass, guns in action. Zero hour: 2.30 pm arrives. Everything seems very still and calm. We open fire and all hell let loose – two guns firing over the top of my truck. The blast is terrifying. Just to let the Japs know we are still around. They cop 100 lb shells for first time.

January 29, 1944

I’m in charge of all the ammunition trucks, two batteries and 130 men. Today one gun got knocked out by a bomb, one man was killed.

February 6, 1944

Situation is now critical – The Japs have circled round and cut off both batteries. Have drawn up all vehicles round a small hill, making a stockade, and all men are atop the hill. Stragglers are coming in wounded. These alone have escaped when attacked by Jap savages. Getting fagged being up all day and night. Our orders are to stay until the last round and the last man.

February 15, 1944

The jungle is our greatest enemy. We have now lost two officers and twenty men killed and several wounded. At long last the mail question has been sorted out by my own efforts. These days I run around on a motor bike. Still in the stockade at night but also very glad when daylight arrives. God, what a damnable place Burma is! How I long to be back home with my darling! I’m suffering from pyorrhoea – my teeth do not stop bleeding – Regt Doc says I should have the lot out!

February 23, 1944

Situation now in hand since the attack on the Japs. Four more casualties. Lost another officer, Captain Taylor, poor old ‘Buck’, one of the best! We’re still knocking off little Tojo’s men like there’s no tomorrow, but action is winding up. Soon I must travel back to Chittagong to arrange accommodation, rations and sea voyage.

May 20, 1944

Arrived back in India. It’s a rotten place really but compared to Burma it is heaven. Colonel said I could stay in Calcutta for a couple of days on my way through to Ranchi. Gosh, how nice it was to sit in a chair, to have a lovely bath and above all to be able to ’pull a chain’ again! I shall never forget the disgusting picture of literally hundreds of men and women squatting in the fields at the break of day, relieving themselves quite unashamed. Back in Blighty we had an outside toilet that guaranteed privacy, even if it backed onto allotments and the railway line. There’s civilization for you.

July 20, 1944

Dear old Ranchi is a decent sort of camp. As Lieutenant i/c Quartermaster Stores, I’m very busy getting guns overhauled for another show at the little yellow idols, getting stores, re-equipping the regiment for action again. The monsoon broke one month ago, but it’s the confounded jungle that gets us down.

August 10, 1944

Leave is the only pleasure war can give you. Arrived Kashmir. What a devil of a journey – trains packed! Fell in with a fellow by the name of Rick Sawyer. Decent sort of chap who hails from Bournemouth. Turns out we might even have played rugger against each other because we both attended public school in Hampshire. Like myself an infantryman.

From the boulevard around Dal Lake edged with symmetrical Mughal gardens and old wooden mosques, we stepped from the jetty to our taxi, a small wooden boat with canopy. ‘One of the Mughal emperors said of the Valley of Kashmir,’ Rick murmured, as our ferryman paddled his shikara towards the houseboats, ‘If there is paradise anywhere on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here.’

‘Ah, Jahangir, he say,’ chuckled the ferryman.

Against the backdrop of Pir Parjal mountains and the lower slopes of rice fields, orchards and gardens, the small craft glided through the lily pads and floating leaves and pink lotus flowers and what appeared to be floating islands flanked by low-hanging willows.

Houseboat waiting for us – servants standing by and we given the usual ‘Salaam, Sahib!’ On board I feel like a millionaire. Lunch at one is the order of the day. What good grub! Minced meat balls (unrationed!) and boiled potatoes, tomatoes and cucumbers grown round the lake. Cooked in saffron, whatever that is. Followed by dry fruits and melons.

‘I hope all this serenity is not an illusion too,’ I said.

It wasn’t. We awoke next day to the rapture of bird song, the gentle lilting of wavelets, the occasional squawking of ducks and geese.

‘When this bloody war comes to an end,’ Rick was saying over breakfast, ‘and Tommy Atkins sets foot on Blighty soil again, you’ll witness a putsch for social justice, for social security. That’s what the talk is all about in the front line, apart from getting back with their loved ones and starting life afresh. It’s the working classes who’ve made the sacrifices, pressed into the thick of the carnage. And, thank God, what a gallant show they’ve made of it! But they won’t tolerate any more abuse in the factories, down the mines or in the trenches.’

‘But a nation that’s grateful won’t ever throw Churchill out of government, surely. He’s won the war off his own bat, single-handed.’

‘Not quite, Leigh. Certainly, he was the leader Britain urgently needed, who warned against the rising power of the Nazis and was determined to act. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. But now that the war has turned our way, a new dawn is breaking and there’s surging support for reform welling up from the lower classes. Mark my words, blokes are sick of this bloody war.’

Too damn right!

August 23, 1944

Still on board, enjoying lazy leave in shimmering sunshine. Neither of us has stepped ashore since we boarded – apart from one foray to Srinagar to smoke hookah, a water pipe. Rick, who seemed to know about such things, suggested we try saffron shisha. The very recumbent act of smoking, observing the curlicues of cooling smoke and scenting the sweet aroma of hay fused with honey led to a state of utter abandonment to relaxation, contentment and inner peace. Heavenly. Even so, I doubt whether we will go ashore again until our leave is up. Lots of lying on deck chairs, reading, hot but delicious food - amazing what you can do with lentils and chick peas! – swimming between the shallow boats of Kashmiri fishermen clouding the water, casting nets or using long-pronged sticks or spears, good conversation and, in spite of the Muslim ban on alcohol, we manage to get the odd bottle of whiskey and gin – made such a change from salt tea coloured pink! What a life! Mind you, I was slugged one thousand pounds. Daylight robbery! Money goes nowhere – ten rupees is worth about eight annas in peacetime. I would have been happier sending it to my Val as a present.

August 26, 1944

At the end of this unreal holiday, such a heavenly hiatus in the bedevilled turmoil of war, both of us sensed a premonition of calamity or death.

‘This is our last night together, Leigh. I can’t help thinking we’ve been so bloody lucky till now.’

‘Let’s drink to that and hope it lasts,’ I replied glumly.

‘Speaking for myself, we’ve had a good run together, a smashing holiday, now it’s time to face the music.’

‘You know, Rick, after a fortnight of sheer bliss, the sense of peace, the calm beauty of this majestic setting, I don’t know that I can report back.’

‘Don’t talk daft, man! You’ve got to. If you don’t, you’ll never be able to look yourself in the face again. Bang goes your self-respect. What will your kids think of you? Not to mention the missus.’

At that appeal to my remote family, my eyes moistened. ‘I’m not married, Rick.’

‘What! But you have a child, don’t you? Oh, don’t tell me . . .’

‘No, it’s not like that. Everything happened so quickly, the call-up, round of goodbyes, all the hoop-la and what have you. We never meant to . . . you know.’

‘I know all about that, but I can’t believe you’d jilt the poor girl. The Luftwaffe have blitzed Portsmouth, remember. You owe it to her to go back.’

‘Yes, mate,’ I whispered with resignation. ‘You’re right. But out here, away from all the horror, the bloody sound and fury, the mangled bodies . . .’ Then I couldn’t help myself but give in to the tears trickling down my face.

Rick was carefully sliding a much-creased photograph from his top pocket. ‘Here, I haven’t showed you my missus and twin boys.’

‘So this is Audrey,’ I sniffled. ‘Very lovely she looks too. I’d kill for a smile like that.’

‘Come on, mate. Steady as she blows.’ Rick patted me gently on the knee. ‘Come on, pull yourself together. The war will be all over in six months. Then we’ll all be back in dear old Blighty.’

‘If we come through this next offensive against the Japs.’

‘Hey, that’s enough of that talk.’

‘It’s a big ‘if’, Rick,’ I insisted.

‘We’re gonna make it, pal, you and me together.’ On that defiant note, he grabbed both my arms, squeezed and shook them, as if to invigorate my flagging spirit.

I felt like a ragged puppet and limply reached out to embrace my friend, still whimpering. With his defences down, Rick must have been taken aback. Before I quite realized, he in turn entwined his arms about me in a protective gesture. Somehow our heads grazed, our awkward tender embrace strengthened into a gripping hug, reluctant tears and heaving sobs, a tentative kiss on the cheeks. For some time, we cradled and rocked, holding onto each other, occasionally patting each other on the back, as if dreading the moment of parting.

January 21, 1945

Our commandoes and heavy artillery made amphibious assault on Ramree Island. 'Auntie' in action, red-hot, throwing her playful two hundred lb shells at the Nips. Naval craft Queen Elizabeth’s eight fifteen-inch guns joined the party. What a great time the little Japs did have! Ramree Island very peaceful now. There’s nothing to see but damage and wrecks, human and otherwise.

March 7, 1945

Just returned to Ramree Island after five days away – mainly flying around the islands, Akyat, Gun Island and Ruywa. When Akyat bombed, I kept out of the sky. Later flew around with American flyers in passenger plane. Ramree still calm – all fighting finished. There's a rumour that hundreds of fleeing Japs were torn apart in a large swamp by saltwater crocodiles. Blimey! What a sickening way to kick the bucket! Glad to get back and enjoy a good soak in the bath and change of clothes.

March 18, 1945

Reprieved! Very little work – can now go shooting for pleasure. Had an illuminating experience today – went popping at whistling teal. Passing through a village, I heard awful female screams. Quickly broke into a run and plunged through the jungle to find two Indian soldiers about to rape a Burmese woman nineteen years old. She was completely naked. I shouted out orders in Urdu to the Indian soldiers (I know the basics of their language now), ordered them to stand to attention. I was starkers myself except for a pair of shorts but had my officers cap on. The Indian soldiers did as they were told while I obtained number, rank, name and unit. The poor female crawled over to me and kissed my feet – her hands clinging to my hips – poor thing, she was dreadfully upset. Then a Burmese man came running up. He was the woman’s husband, also head man of the village and, wonders never cease, he spoke perfect English, addressing me as ‘Your Honour’. He was most grateful and called me his ‘blood brother’.

March 20, 1945

Just returned from a shooting trip – great sport, bagged 8 ducks. Called in at the village and saw my ‘blood brother’. He gave me a great welcome, chair, table, tablecloth, lots of fruit. His poor wife is always looking at me, as if I was a god! All the village gather round and I give the youngsters chocolate. They all seem to worship me now. Poor things, they had an awful time when the Japs were on the island. I am given the freedom of the village. As I walk among them, both men and women always bow to me – normally, if it were anybody else the women would turn their backs and walk indoors. The Japs certainly took their toll of the women – they don’t seem to understand why I don’t want any of them. Time after time I visit the village and the children run to greet me.

April 10, 1945

Still on Ramree, our move to Bangalore being cancelled. My day of days has arrived. Staff captain of HQRA arrived from Aryab, a very good friend of mine. His first words were ‘Congratulations, Leigh’ and shook my hand. I couldn’t understand what it was all about, he looked so solemn. Then wonderful news, news I had been waiting for almost four long, weary years: ‘Your boat’s in, Leigh, and you’re leaving for home in a couple of weeks. I’m afraid, though, your mate Rick Sawyer didn’t make it back. A Japanese sniper ambushed him on Gun Island. I’m sorry, Leigh.’

Rushed a letter off to Val, telling her the mixed blessing.

April 19, 1945

Said goodbye to the Regiment at 0930 today. Left Ramree Island in a Dakota for Calcutta and finally reached the drome about 2030 hrs. Put up at the Punjabi Masala.

April 20, 1945

Terrible weather. Temperature 90 degrees all day and not a drop of rain. The air is decidedly unwholesome. Afraid the fever is coming on again, twinges of rheumatism in joints.

April 24, 1945

‘Where are you eating today?’ asked Namdev, clearly pleased to see me up and about again.

‘The Great Eastern Hotel as usual.’

‘Why to do that?’

‘Always enjoyed putting up at the Great Eastern with its checkerboard marble and hot, spicy Chinese dishes as well as hobnobbing with the Rajahs and Nawabs and nabobs of Calcutta. This time, though, what with the regular billeting of the Yanks as well as our boys we couldn’t get a look-in. So we had a scout around and found this place.’

‘My good sir, see if you haven’t merited such good choice. This is palace, not flea-pit. Most definitely.’

‘I’m certainly getting a taste for your masala chai. Must be my sweet tooth. I do miss my rum babas in Winchester, though.’

‘Come with me. I like to show you how Sikhs are thinking.’

‘Sorry, Namdev, it’s not just the food, but the company at the Great Eastern, the atmosphere. There’s good drinking, we have a few belly laughs, really let our hair down with a sing-song round the old joanna.’

‘If you want to learn for yourself how Indian people are living, just come with me to the gurdwara. The food is very healthy and the cost is free, isn’t it.’

‘Where is this restaurant?’

‘Come, I show you.’ Namdev took my elbow and steered me to the door. ‘It’s not a restaurant exactly.’

Walking by the bazaar of shop fronts with elevated floors and hawkers sitting on mats selling their wares, we arrived at a patch of shade beneath some sturdy concrete pillars.

‘What is this place?

‘A Sikh temple, isn’t it.’

'But I thought . . .'

‘We are going up these steps. This is place of worship so you must take off your shoes and cover your head. There’s some space in the back row.’

‘I thought we were heading for lunch. My stomach’s got a hole in it.’

‘Soon, very soon. We are just sitting on the carpet for a few minutes and listening to prayers.’

An elderly silver-bearded man was kneeling down before the altar and chanting verses from the holy book mounted on a platform, accompanied by one man on drum and two on cymbals. The worshippers recited a response.

‘They are singing a hymn to praise the One True God,’ whispered Namdev. ‘It is Punjabi language. See how smiling they are.’

A stubbly youth stood up and recited a long prayer before the old man gave a blessing.

‘Come,’ said Namdev. We make a tour of the langar, the kitchens.’

‘What’s the hygiene like?’ I whispered. ‘Putrid?’ We’ve been warned against eating from street vendors and cheap dives.’

‘God is good to you, my friend.’

Further into the temple, several women were preparing the food at a row of tables near a steaming cauldron and smaller pots.

‘As you see, on the griddle there, we are eating chapatti, very popular in West Bengal with dahl. And vegetable curry, very spicy hot. Next time you come, you make chapatti.’

‘Why is there no charge for the meal?’

‘Sikhs believe that everyone is equal and must share food. Those from our community who can give contribution help poor people.’

Namdev’s words about a just society for his community struck a chord with Rick’s vision for the light on the hill for post-war Britain.

After the simple but satisfying meal of curried vegetables eaten cross-legged on the floor, I was eager to visit St Paul’s Cathedral. ‘My time is fast running out, Namdev,’ I explained. ‘I must leave tomorrow.’

Back in the lobby of the Punjabi Masala, we were waiting for Balbir when suddenly a loud shriek rent the air.

‘What the hell!’

‘Please, everything’s under control,’ pleaded a rattled Namdev. ‘My wife, she is attending to small domestic matter.’

But I was already hastening to the foot of the stairs, just in time to see a petite young lady scurrying across the landing, sobbing bitterly to the jingling of miniature bells on her ankle bracelet.

‘Is everything all right?’ I called out. ‘Are you okay?’ But the young woman wearing a sky-blue shalmar kamiz covered the side of her face with a sleeve and disappeared along the passage.

From the doorway behind me came Namdev’s voice with a hint of irritation: ‘Please, sir, come with me. I have arranged for my brother Balbir to escort you to St Paul’s. He is on leave from the Indian Army. Very beautiful cathedral, St Paul’s.’

‘But what about the young lady?’

‘As I said, my wife is seeing to the matter, isn’t it.’

‘But it’s a terrible shame that . . .’

‘I tell you, it’s a shame and scandal. Damn me if I have no-good woman for daughter!’

While the bearing of Namdev’s brother was very straight-backed, his face bore the scars of conflict. No longer was he wearing breeches tucked into puttees, but a skirt-jacket and loose trousers. His fierce green eyes reminded me of the leopard I had surprised.

‘Namaste!’ he said, arching his hands and bowing in a perfunctory manner.

‘Namaste! First thing, Balbir, who is that young girl crying her eyes out?’

He shrugged. ‘Women’s business.’

‘Yes, but did she have an accident, was she sick?’

‘That’s Namdev’s daughter-in-law. Chetana. Now she is married she must live in Namdev’s household. It is her duty to obey her mother-in-law. She is crying very often.’

‘But why, man?’

Again Balbir shrugged and took his time to answer. ‘Perhaps she doesn’t make the chapatti or paratha in right way. Then she is beaten for being lazy or careless.’

‘Beaten? By whom?’

‘By her mother-in-law,’ he said impatiently. ‘Arjinder.’

‘Whatever happened to equal rights for all Sikhs? Or the unity of male and female principles?’

Balbir’s bushy black brow furrowed. ‘We do not trouble our heads with doctrine. We fight’.

‘All the same . . . What’s the purpose of those bells on her ankle?’

‘They are warning my brother of her presence. He must never be seen by her in awkward positions, like sitting with his legs apart or picking his nose.’ His white molars tinged with red beetel juice offered an uncertain grin. ‘Dignity he must keep to command respect due.’

The heat was stifling, dry and dusty as we made our way to the Maidan by cycle-rickshaw. In the distance across the lawns, hazed in silver glitter, Howrah Bridge, a nest of jumbled needles above a dipping bow. I still had the stomach cramps, but as we breezed down Strand Road alongside the broad sweep of the Hooghly River, an arm of Mata Ganga, I was confronted by lives lived on the street, thousands upon thousands of them: bowl sellers sitting on upturned baskets, bamboo basket-makers, craftsmen squatting by their pavement stalls. And at the ghats dunking bathers washing themselves or offering prayers and laundry folk kneading their clothes. A team of bullocks was traversing the bridge. Were those occasional whiffs of a sweet smell blowing over from the burning ghats, I wondered, or from the stench of raw sewage, cow dung, goat droppings and mouldering vegetables around the stalls? Half a dozen men were carrying a muslin-wrapped body down to the funerary pyres for cremation before the gaze of onlookers. Repelled but fascinated in spite of myself, I couldn’t help but sense the presence of death all around me, incredulous that the stark reality was played out so publicly, so accepted as matter-of-fact. Hustling the burning ghats with begging bowls were ghastly grey ghosts, the faquirs, holy men smeared with ash, as if stricken with leprosy along with mendicants telling their beads.

The din of hooting motor horns, ringing of bicycle bells, the blast from downstream of sirens from cargo ships and tugs at full stretch bullying a host of slight bamboo craft and fishing boats whose fishermen were standing or lying in the bows. The throngs of gabbling wayfarers were becoming insufferable, but from Fort William the sight of St Paul’s Cathedral imposed on civilized grass in the Maidan was a little comforting, more calming, people relaxing beneath the boughs of trees. The scrawny brown-berried bodies of kids scampering at cricket brought a smile. The familiar tower, the Gothic features, the stained glass windows reminded me of familiar Canterbury.

I paid my respects to honour the British dead who lost their lives in various wars as well as the 1857 Uprising at Kanpur, when the British garrison was massacred, four hundred men, women and children. Their names were commemorated by slabs on the walls. A pang of homesickness abruptly swept over me. How often had I been savouring the prospect of holding my precious Valerie in my arms, but momentarily I envisioned myself as a marked man. My number was up.

‘Maya!’ Balbir spat on the ground.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I retorted, indignant.

‘That building is a blot on the Indian escutcheon, an illusion, an empty symbol of your power bygone. Why these foreign relics can’t stay dead!’

‘But many Indians follow the Christian faith.’

‘If the British honour their word, they will be handing over reins of government to the rightful ones.’

‘So why do you frown?’

‘Suffer me to wonder if the partition bears fruit, what will become of Amritsar? What will be the fate of our Golden Temple?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘That was a question rhetorical, isn’t it. But I tell you, God has his reasons.’

Inside the cathedral, the atmosphere was still, peaceful, cooled by the rows of fans hanging from the ceiling. This eccentric though welcome addition got me pondering how out-of-place this relic of imperial grandeur was, like stolid Fort William in its splendid isolation on the banks of the Hooghly.

‘Balbir, I can’t imagine the pride of the Indian army turning against His Majesty’s army. At the beginning of the war, it was only the British Commonwealth that had the guts to stand up against Hitler. And the Indian army was loyal. In fact, in spite of Gandhi’s injunction, Indians of every religion mustered in their legions to take arms against Nazism.’

‘Yes indeed, the Indian army will continue to fight against the Axis Powers, but now we are also fighting against the Japanese on our own eastern flank. So allegiance is changing, especially since the Mahatma began his Quit India campaign and pressed his claim for Indian independence.’

‘But why is Gandhi listened to? From what I gather, he holds some very weird ideas. Such as his advice to Westminster to lay down arms and allow Hitler to enter England. That’s crazy talk! And the man spends hours spinning cloth by hand and wearing the skirt of the labourer and going on a hunger strike over a salt tax till he’s wafer-thin. Since when has fasting been a weapon? Then there’s his hypocrisy of preaching celibacy in marriage while sleeping alongside very young and attractive women. And he’s only recently been released from the lock-up. How can you win a war that way? Or even govern your own country, especially one so vast and inhabitants so numerous?’

‘Gandhi is very humble man, very holy. He respects lowest caste, especially the Untouchables. Unlike your Mr Churchill. Gandhi, he fights with strength of spirit, not force of arms.’

In order to be rid of me, I suspect, Balbir suggested I might care to visit the South Park Street Cemetery by myself. It was an hour or so before sunset when I strolled toward the city centre. The park was somnolent but for the shrill cry of radiant blue peacocks, some strutting along the lower boughs of trees. The cross on these tall gravestones etched with moss confirmed the Christian burial ground. Inside the main gate, the large porch displayed several plaques on its walls – the dates and ages of the deceased. Causes of death were classified as tropical illnesses and childbirth; also battle wounds and shipwrecks; even victims of lightning strikes. What really hit home was the high number of infants and children who had died, far away from the land of their fathers.

Along the central avenue, the vast imperial necropolis of tombs, mausoleums and pyramids in decay illustrated the supposed glory of the British Raj. It had seen better days. The crumbling of those grand soot-encrusted buildings saddened me, left me pondering over the massy imposition of a foreign culture, then bewildered at the huge outlay of energy and expense. Then the advertisements for Britannia Biscuits and Ovaltine, Epsom Salts and Waterbury’s Compound, Kepler’s Malt and Castor Oil, all wrenched me with the terrible longing for home and the flashes of memorial keepsakes from childhood.

By a roadside stall I was deep in thoughts about Corine while waiting to be served three stumpy little bananas: was she talking yet, why haven’t I received any photos of her, how many letters have gone astray, does she look like me? Bam! I was jolted by a smack on the chest, something filthy red, a slobbery wad of that chewed paan, the juice or spittle leaving a messy stain on my shirt front. I turned round to face the fierce glare of a middle-aged man in loose white baggy trousers.

‘Why you don’t quit India, you imperious English dogs!’ he yelled, with a jerky dismissive motion of an upraised arm. ‘You curse of Allah!’

Whether it were my fatigue or debility or too much wandering through the wall of heat and dust, the shimmering sunlight was dancing tricks on my senses, my peripheral vision, gathering momentum. The garish colours of displays of merchandise by street pedlars, signboard cartoons, bolts of material, fabrics, simmering silks, luminous saris, scrolls of oriental carpet, all seemed to bleed into one trembling phantasm. Throbbing in my temples set me reeling a little, weary footsteps too. ‘Must stay strong!’ I told myself. ‘Must stay safe! Stay strong! Stay alive!’ Thrusting my weak legs forward with each verbal kick of command. ‘Chin up, you slouch! Pull yourself together, man! For godsakes, keep up your pecker up! Get back home, you must! Sweet Val is waiting, remember. Your lotus blossom is waiting. Damn right she is! I must stay alive for my lotus, remember. My two lotuses, remember . . .’

Michael Small

January 12-February 28, 2013.

Michael Small, Writer: Short Stories

Friday, 8 March 2013

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