MY DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Since landing in India about 200 years ago we have
had many novel and remarkable experiences, but I think in my case none
has been more strange and disconcerting than my transformation into a
civilian or a _dufter wallah_ (as we who sit at desks are contemptuously
termed by the fighting men).
Table manners are a great trial to me in my new employ. In barracks, if
you want bread, you merely shout in the queer jargon of the British
soldier in India, "_Hao_ up the _roti_ there!" You then duck quickly,
brush the crumbs out of your hair and get on with the meal. As a
civilian I have to count ten, take myself firmly in hand, prepare a
courteous little speech and deliver it with care and precision, trying
hard to avoid glancing over my shoulder to see if a lump is likely to
catch me under the ear.
And every night, though it is now over two months since I left the
regiment, I carefully feel the legs of my bedstead before retiring to
rest. For in barrack life, when you lie down unsuspectingly on a bed
which has been "set," it instantly collapses into a shapeless mass of
wreckage and shoots you out violently on the floor.
In the office itself my new life is full of difficulties. Soon after my
arrival I thoughtlessly celebrated the completion of a rather
troublesome task by bursting into song, as we always did in barracks.
Shortly afterwards I received a frigidly polite message from my superior
officer, saying, if I had any complaint to make, would I be so good as
to put it into writing and to refrain from any vocal advertisement of my
grievances.
But even office life has its compensations. There are moments of pure
delight, such as that in which I discovered "_Cemeteries_" classified
under the general heading of "_Accommodation for Troops_."
And the Babu is always with us to make our days joyful. Babu English is
perhaps rather _vieux jeu_ at this time of day; nevertheless it is a
privilege to read on the spot a supplication for permission to
"prostitute myself daily to your holy feet this time without fail
whereby to beseech to Heaven to send to your Honour many posthumous
olive branches"; or a request that "your Highness will not cause to _nip
in the Bud_ my unworthy yet fragrant hopes by the December _cold snap_
of your august displeasure."
In conversation, excellent fellow as he usually is, the Babu is easily
misunderstood. It was only yesterday that one of them was giving me an
account of an old Sikh monk he had come upon during a walk in the woods.
I had not known before that there were monks among the Sikhs, but then
there are quite a number of facts about India that I have yet to learn.
I had no difficulty in picturing the aged hermit sitting at the foot of
a tree in a religious trance. But it seemed strange that when the Babu
approached he should have shown his teeth and gibbered. This, however,
might be due to the eccentricity of a recluse or to some caste
difficulty. I could not share the Babu's surprise that he refused the
acorns proffered to him, but it did seem odd that when the Babu
callously shook his stick at the old man and said "_Huh!_" he swarmed
with great agility up the tree and made faces.
It was only when the limpness of his tail was mentioned that I suddenly
realised we were talking about a sick monkey.
Letters from the Battalion, 7000 feet below, drift up to me
occasionally, but they contain little beyond the old sentiment,
expressed hundreds of times daily by Territorials from the Himalayas to
the Nilghiris. India is a marvellous and unique country; to have lived
in it is an education and a joy; to have guarded it a proud Imperial
privilege. But most of us would give something to get out of it and into
Europe. Yours ever,