MY DEAR _Mr. Punch_,--In case you formed any mental pictures
of my first Christmas as a Territorial in India, let me hasten to
assure you that every single one of them was wrong. I neither took
part in the uproarious festivities of the Barracks nor shared the more
dignified rejoicings of the Staff Office in which I am condemned for a
time to waste my military talents. An unexpected five days' holiday,
and a still more unexpected windfall of Rs. 4 as a Christmas Box
(fabulous gift for an impecunious private) enabled me to pay a visit
to some relatives, who live at, well ----. One has to be careful. The
Germans are getting desperate, and they would give worlds to know
exactly where I am.
---- is a place rich in historical interest and scenic beauties.
Freed from the rigid bonds of military discipline and the still more
hampering restrictions of official routine, I was at liberty to enjoy
them to the full. It was the opportunity of a lifetime to see something
of the real India. Did I take it? No, _Mr. Punch_, to be honest, I did
not.
After hundreds of years (so it seems) of Army active service rations,
of greasy mess tins and enamelled iron mugs, I found myself suddenly
confronted by civilised food waiting to be eaten in a civilised
fashion. And I fell. Starting with _chota hazri_ at 7 A.M., I
ate steadily every day till midnight. That is how I spent my holiday. I
may as well complete this shameful confession; it was the best time I
ever had in my life.
I feel confident that my stomachic feats will never be forgotten in
----. I shouldn't be surprised if in years to come the natives are
found worshipping a tree trunk or stone monolith rudely carved into the
semblance of an obese Territorial. It is pleasant to think that one may
even have founded a new religion.
But I am grieved and troubled about one thing. I ate plantains and
guavas and sweet limes and Cape gooseberries and pomolos and numberless
other Indian fruits (O bliss!), but not custard apples. Custard apples,
it appears, are the best of all, and they went out of season just
before I arrived in India and will not come into season again for
months and months.
I am confident that you will appreciate my predicament. I want the War
to finish quickly, but I want to eat custard apples. I want to get to
the Front and have a go at the Germans, but I desire passionately to
eat custard apples. I want to get home again to you, but after all I
have heard about them I feel that my life will have been lived in vain
if I do not eat custard apples. It is a trying position.
Home was very much in my thoughts at Christmas time. The fact of having
relatives around me, the plum pudding, the mince pies, the mistletoe,
the clean plates, the china cups and saucers, the crackers, the
cushions, the absence of stew,--all these and many other circumstances
served to remind me vividly of the old life in England. And when
regretfully I left ----, and (like a true soldier cheerfully running
desperate risks) travelled back in a first-class carriage with a
third-class ticket, I found at the Office yet another reminder of home
and the old days. My kindly colleagues had determined that I should not
feel I was in a strange land amid alien customs. They had let all the
work accumulate while I was away and had it waiting for me in a vast
pile on my return.
That is why this is such a short letter.
Yours ever,