At the Age for Love: A Novel of Bangalore During World War Ii

By Reginald N. Shires

At the Age for Love--A novel of Bangalore during World War II, is an extraordinary story of a soldier''s family waiting for his safe return from the Africa Front where he serves with a British tank unit pressing hard against the Germans in the desert of Libya. The chronicle begins with the soldier, Capt. Edward Thompson, saying goodbye to his wife Amelia and son Paddy and ends with his return at the end of the war. The story, narrated in incredible detail, tells how the boy and his mother with their relatives and friends live in this hectic military city in South India, where those who stay behind are swept along into the rushing, wild stream of British history in India during a time of war. The lives of these women--and their children--provide a bold story of Anglo-India in this multihued Indian landscape where rogues and villains and the honest, hard-working, church-going, form relationships in this bold saga as men and women cross family and racial boundaries in their search for love. The city of Bangalore with its cluster of towns around British army barracks comes alive with memorable characters and this novel follows their tense and gripping relationships. The ending, where these fun-loving characters come together in a frail boat on the peaceful Cauvery River at Seringapatnam near sunset, has much to say about life and the human mystery and the vision it offers us as we live in a changing world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 30, 2006
• ISBN: 9781463451929

Reginald N. Shires

Reginald N. Shires, a clergyman, was born in Bangalore, the capital of Karnataka state in South India.  He studied at Clarence High School in Bangalore and went to Spicer College near Pune.  He completed his graduate studies in journalism at Pennsylvania State University in the U.S.A.  He also studied theology at the seminary at Andrews University, Berrien Springs, Michigan.  He is the author of The Leopard''s Call: An Anglo-Indian Love Story, a non-fiction book of family life at Falakata, a small town on the grasslands of Jalpaiguri District, West Bengal, India.  His fiction, "The Day Ernie-Boy Retired," a story of one day in the life of a working man in Bangalore, appears in Voices on the Verandah.  He now lives with his wife Norma D''Sena Shires in Maryland in the U.S.A., just a few miles from Washington, D.C., the nation''s capital.  At the Age for Love--A novel of Bangalore during World War II is his first novel. 

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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2006 Reginald N. Shires. All Rights Reserved.

Photo of the author by Douglas C. Hodges

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 01/23/06

ISBN: 1-4208-7799-2 (sc)

ISBN: 1-4208-7800-X (dj)

ISBN: 9781463451929 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2005907647

Material from the story Without Benefit of Clergy by Rudyard Kipling, originally from Mine Own People, is from Rudyard Kipling, Collected Stories, Everyman’s Library, published by Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1994, a division of Random House (Bertelsmann).

Book Design Consultant: Ashley Eller

Cover design by April Mostek

Book layout and design by Peter Voakes

Text set in Adobe Caslon

Research and editing by Norma D. Shires, Daniel T. Riggle, Annette D. Hodges,

Cristabell A. Hodges, Lloyd Townsend, Marlene I. Hodges and Winetta L. Hodges.

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

First Edition

When I passed by you again and looked upon you, behold, you were at the age for love… Ezekiel 16:8.

Dedication

To two great cities of our world: Bangalore and Baltimore. To Bangalore, the place of my birth, where my young heart began to beat, providing me with many happy years filled with rich experiences and stories to tell. To Baltimore, where I left my heart, which doctors at Johns Hopkins University Hospital replaced with a woman’s heart.

To that brave woman who donated several vital organs that day, including her heart for me, giving many of us a chance to live again.

Often I am reminded of what Jacob of old said on seeing Joseph, his lost son of many years: I had not thought to see your face; and lo, God has let me see your children also. So I dedicate this work to the children of the next generation of my family whom I thought I would never see: To the D’Costa boys—Darren Vincent and Sean Phillip; To the Shires—Morgan Elizabeth; William Thomas; Carli Michelle; Tiffany Nicole and Brittany Rochelle.

Contents

Bangalore, 1940

For Those Who Stand And Wait

Running With The Herd

Relatives

The Bedroom

The Christmas Dance

The Soldier

D-day Celebrations At Amelia’s Home

Katie Mcdonald’s Secret

Nana Brady’s Funeral

New Directions

The Plane

The Soldier Returns

Bangalore, 1940

THE VICTORIAN CARRIAGE, newly painted in black, trimmed in brass with red, white and blue pinstripes, climbs the slope of crowded Brigade Road toward the parade grounds during the evening shopping. Pulled by a large black gelding, a dagger-like strip of white on his handsome face, and with white leg markings on three feet, the horse looks like he should be on the parade ground rather than put to work pulling a carriage. The coachman, high up on the front dickey box, is a wiry Tamil dressed in a khaki uniform two sizes too big, with short pants, and a white turban he’s not used to. By his feet are his new brown canvas shoes, which he’s supposed to wear, but he’s taken them off, feeling better in his bare feet. He nervously stands up, trying to control the horse, which is on its first run after a month of training at the military horse farm.

Move Sultan, move, he shouts at the horse in Tamil, cracking the whip just above the animal’s ears. Why can’t you climb this slope? Drank too much water, didn’t you? Please, my prince, don’t fail me now after all I’ve been through with you!

Sultan tosses his head and neighs, his mouth frothing at the bit. The wide and level boulevards of Bangalore are easy for him and he keeps his pace, but now on the slope of Brigade Road, he feels the full weight of the carriage and wants a rest.

Stop at Royal Photos, the soldier in the carriage calls out.

Thank you, God, says the coachman, in a whisper, raising his hands and eyes to heaven. Did you hear that, my Sultan? The horse listens, his ears held back.

In the carriage the man in a captain’s uniform of the British Army looks out at the crowded street. He is spending a two-week leave with his family before his unit ships out to the North Africa front. At his side sits a boy of twelve in a dark blue gabardine suit, double breasted coat, and in short pants. The woman in the carriage is young and dark-haired and is dressed in a pinstriped blue dress with a spray of fresh gardenias.

Royal Photos, Sir, the coachman calls out as he pulls to the curb of the busy street crowded with British soldiers in khaki uniforms with insignias from a dozen different regiments and ranks. The coachman carefully reins in the horse, backing up the carriage, trying to get close to the curb, a maneuver he’s practiced with his horse many times. He succeeds on his first try, backing up the horse whose hooves strike hard against the granite, sending sparks. The coachman nimbly jumps down to the curb, securing the horse to a telephone pole.

A group of soldiers passing by stop and look at the large horse. An army horse, mate, says one. See the brand on his rump? How come he’s pulling a personal carriage?

Get moving Smithy, you don’t want to get into another fight, laddie, says a tall corporal in a kilt.

Coachman tries not to pay attention to the soldiers, but he trembles. The brand on the horse is going to land me in trouble, he thinks. I’ve got to cover that brand with a horse blanket like the Maharaja does to his horses. Now he runs to the carriage door with its shiny brass handle and, with a flourish, opens the carriage door for the young captain and his family.

So the Tommies saw your stolen horse, Coachman? says the boy, as he emerges from the carriage, his trousers and coat creased.

Quiet, Paddy Baba. You have ears like a fox, he says in Tamil.

A large black dog, bear-like, with brown markings over his eyes, on his chest, and on his paws, lies quietly tucked under the boy’s feet, watching the stream of young soldiers.

Can Rover go in to get his picture taken with us? the boy asks his parents.

No, Son, he can’t. Now, are we going to go through this again, Paddy? This dog doesn’t obey and you know that, the Captain says as he jumps down out of the carriage. How many times I’ve told you you’ve got to get him to obey you, lad, if he’s going to amount to anything?

Please? says the boy, holding his dog by the collar. The dog jumps out of the carriage and the boy grabs his collar, but the dog starts pulling and sniffing at things, dragging the boy along the cobblestone sidewalk to the laughter of the soldiers. We don’t have a family picture with him in it, Dad, he calls back, already half way down the block.

Let him go, laddie, one young Scot fusilier laughs, scurrying out of the dog’s way. Here, Rover, my boy, says the soldier, throwing down an English paper with a picture of Hitler. Let’s see what you do with this bloody ugly Hun! Rover sniffs at the paper on the granite stones and promptly raises his leg and sprinkles the picture with a stream of deep yellow urine, hitting Hitler. The Tommies jump with joy and laughter, attracting other soldiers. Well done, Rover, well done! Three cheers for Rover, hip…hip…hip… the fusilier shouts. The sidewalk erupts with wild hoorays. We’ll piss on that bugger too when we get our hands on him! Won’t we lads? Cheers burst out from a hundred young British voices, caps tossed high in the air.

How did that soldier boy know Rover’s name, Ma? Paddy asks after dozens of the soldiers pat Rover, saying kind things to him.

Must be a common name in England, she says, settling her hair. These boys are handsome devils, aren’t they Paddy? There they are; going off to war joking and laughing.

So, Ma, what do you say? Can I take Rover in?

Take him in! Heavens no, child. Your father is right. This dog is not ready to go into the shops. You know we’ve had several incidents with him. Coachman will watch him while we go in to get our pictures taken. Hurry now.

Oh, Ma, this poor dog has no freedom. We should have just left him at the estate where he was born. He would have enjoyed his life better than living in this city.

And how long would that have lasted? He’d be dead by now, killed by a leopard or a bear. You know that, silly! Uncle Buddy’s place is full of big game. Dogs don’t last six months up there.

That’s all, Paddy, the Captain says. You are not listening, young chap. When your mother speaks, listen. And Coachman, you watch this black devil. If he runs away, you’re dead.

Yes, Sir, says the coachman as he takes the leash from Paddy, and pulling and pushing the dog, grumbles softly, so only Paddy hears him, about how unfair life is and that this dog should be fed to the panthers. With a heave, Coachman carries up the dog and pushes him back in the carriage; Rover growls at Coachman. See, for this I’m dead, he mimics the Captain. The dog jumps up on the brown leather seat in the back and boldly pushes his head through the small back window and barks his disapproval as the family walks into Royal Photo Studios.

The studio is dimly lit, except for the area where the photograph is to be taken. The backdrop is of Covent Garden. A white marble bench stands before the market’s flower stand.

Very impressive, Mr. Narayan, Amelia says.

Complete remodeling done, Mrs. Thompson. Since you were last here with your handsome son, I have made many changes. I only hope the Captain approves of the German camera I now have. But it is a Leica; the one and only portrait camera. But who knows where I will get parts for it? I speak only for your ears: an English soldier sold it to me! It is practically brand new, Captain Thompson. The beauty of this camera! I have prayed for it ever since I saw it long ago at Spencer and Company; but how good of you to come to my humble studio when there are so many other places.

We’ve always come here, Narayan, haven’t we? says the Captain, adjusting his uniform.

Come, come, I now have proper dressing rooms; this way for the lady and on the other side for gentlemen.

Paddy is out of the dressing room before his parents, his hair quickly brushed down. He stands and takes in the scene and wonders if he could paint the same background when he gets home. Narayan is checking his camera, a soft yellow cloth in his hand with which he keeps polishing up things on the camera. He adjusts the tripod, looking through the lens of the camera, rubbing his hands as he stands back, waiting.

Paddy, your hair is sticking up at the back, his mother says, walking in. Let me brush it down some more. She gently pulls her boy to her side.

Your gardenias smell so good, Mum, he says, looking up, admiring his mother.

Your father always brings me flowers and I thought these would look nice on this dress.

They do. You look pretty, you know.

Thanks, son; I hope this is a good picture. Your father will be gone a long time to the front, Paddy. It will just be the two of us then.

Narayan, the photographer, beckons the family. He places the wife to his left; the Captain to the right. The boy sits on the very edge of the marble bench, between his parents, his feet just touching the floor. The tuft of hair sticks up from the back of his parting, bothering the photographer who steps forward from beside his camera and tries to press the boy’s hair down one more time.

That’s where the cow licked him when he was born, the Captain says. It never stays down.

Dad, you’re always saying that. I bet you your hair stuck up like a fan when you were ten!

As soon as the photographer releases the boy’s hair it sticks up again. Never mind, he says, as he backs up again to look at the family. He walks over to a light and adjusts it. Then he turns on some more lights and looks the family over once again. He turns to his camera and looks through the lenses and adjusts it. The backdrop is pleasing to him. He purchased it from an amateur photographer from a Scottish regiment who was in debt to the butcher, the baker, and everybody else and was selling things left and right. This is the first time he’s using the backdrop and against it the Captain and his family look attractive. Narayan is hoping to win a prize in the All-India competition for professional photographers from Kodak and he’s on the lookout for the right subject. The last few months all he’s taken are photos of soldiers with their families or girlfriends before they’re shipped off to fight the Italians and Germans. He admires the young mother in her pinstriped dress, her pretty face radiant and happy. The boy has the eyes and mouth of his mother and the forehead and hairline of his father. The father in his dress uniform of the Royal Engineers is strong with broad shoulders.

All is in readiness, Sir, he calls out. Are you prepared for me to take the picture?

Ready, says the officer.

Please give me a big smile. The lens cap is swiftly removed and quickly placed back. One exposure is over. He readies the camera for the next picture. He changes the direction in which the family looks, adjusts a light and is back again for the second portrait, his head disappearing under the black hood as he checks the pose.

The bark of a dog right in the studio startles everybody. Through the dark springs Rover. The photographer, under the black hood, rears back like a horse, causing Rover to bark louder at the strange shape, circling the poor man, charging and barking. The photographer backs into the tripod and falls sprawling to the ground, pulling his precious camera down, shouting out to the Captain to save him from the mad beast that has entered his studio.

Rover, get over here, Paddy orders. The dog leaps over the photographer and climbs right onto the bench with Paddy, licking his face, then the Captain’s and Amelia’s, his black tail wagging, knocking the brass pot of ferns to the stone floor.

Coachman enters timidly, shielding his eyes from the bright lights, the brown leather leash in his hand. Rover jumps down, charging him, barking fiercely. The photographer lies on the floor, his face covered, fearing an attack. In Tamil, Coachman calls out, Captain, Sir, it was not my fault, Sir. He suddenly ran off and followed your tracks into this place. What am I to do, Sir?

The photographer reaches for his precious camera and examines it. Angry, he suddenly springs to life, grabs the tripod, and lunges at the dog shouting like a dervish. Rover charges. The photographer thrusts again and again, getting Rover in the side. Rover winces, recovers, and leaps up, baring his teeth in a fierce growl. The Captain and Amelia are helpless, doubled up with laughter. Paddy jumps down from the marble bench and grabs the dog, but the photographer lunges again, connecting with Rover’s paw. The dog yelps. That’s not fair, Paddy shouts, but Rover leaps forward, dragging the boy to the ground, pulling him across the shiny floor where the boy’s long legs catch the spotlight stand, sending it crashing to the ground, the bulb exploding in a blue flash. The photographer’s shop is in darkness.

I have Rover, Paddy shouts.

Then, get him out! the father orders through fits of laughter.

This is not a laughing matter, Sir, says the photographer from somewhere in the dark studio. "My precious camera, dear Sir, no doubt is badly damaged!"

*

In December, the nights are cold at Bangalore. At the large house the Thompson family owns, they gather around a fireplace in the front room. Paddy cuddles up to his mother, begs for a story. The Captain has pulled his brown leather armchair before the crackling fire and is lost in a new Zane Grey novel. Around him, lying open, are some old German magazines on tank warfare he intends to read after an hour with his book.

Suddenly, a piercing, mournful howl disturbs the peaceful but cold night. It’s Rover, taken to howling, wolf-like, from Coachman’s room at the back of the large compound where he’s been banished by the Captain, over the protests of Paddy and Amelia.

Ignore that bloody wolf, says the Captain, without even looking up from his book. That spoiled dog stays away from the house tonight.

Paddy looks at his mother, a scowl on his face.

Hush, she whispers, holding her finger before her lips. Then pulling out a brand new book as a surprise for her son, she says aloud: See what I ordered from Wheeler’s Bookstore at the station. It came in today. We’ll have stories to last us a long time while your father is away.

The boy springs to life and takes the book from his mother. My Own People by Kipling he announces, as he holds the book to his nose, smelling the brand new dark green and gold edition.

Don’t say you found it, Edward says, looking out over the top of his glasses.

Well, what do you think? I’ve been after this book for a year now. Take it over to your father, Paddy. I got it at the list price too, my dear.

Edward takes the book and examines it closely. It’s brand new! How did you ever locate something as good as this? Amelia leaves her chair and stands proudly next to her husband while he opens the book. Good Lord, he exclaims, you have a first edition!

I do!

You are a very lucky woman. This book is in great shape, Amelia.

Look, Ma, it has a picture of Rudyard Kipling, says Paddy.

Nice looking man, says Amelia, but how did he ever see with those tiny glasses?

Now let the boy read some of this on his own, Amelia. Don’t go babying him, reading him all the stories. You’re getting too old, Paddy, for your mother to be reading you bedtime stories.

Mum will read me the ghost stories, Dad, when you are away! Paddy laughs.

Not in this house will you catch me reading ghost stories, Paddy, my boy!

What’s this picture, Ma? Paddy asks when they go back to their places. It’s the only illustration in the book.

Amelia takes the book gently from her son and looks at the picture. Oh, this is lovely. I’ve never seen this picture before. This illustrates a great story, Paddy, perhaps his best. Look, Edward, she says, again holding up the book. Edward closes the book he’s reading and peers once more over his glasses, studying the picture.

Very good, he announces. We’ve never seen this illustration before; must be printed from a watercolor painting. Why don’t you try buying the original, my girl, for my study?

High hopes.

"What is the story about, Ma? You and Dad ignore me, you know."

Well, then, Paddy, the neglected child, tell me what you see in this picture.

The young girl, she’s Indian. Muslim I’d say from the type of slippers she’s wearing. She’s got on a lot of jewelry for her age. And the little baby in her lap looks a lovely little chap and he’s looking up at the man—his father, perhaps. The man, I’d guess is English, maybe an officer. He’s sitting on a rather expensive pillow. They’re up on the roof of a house, sitting on a bench built into the parapet, overlooking the city, maybe the Muslim section of the town. The sky looks like night, but bright and filled with clouds.

Very good, says the mother. "This is an illustration for ‘Without Benefit of Clergy,’ a story which is special to your father and me. I’m glad to see this story is included in Mine Own People. It shows Kipling knew a little about the real India and is willing to claim even these people—and their children—as his people. Something the English are not always so ready to do. It’s about love, Paddy, the love of an Indian woman—a mere girl—for an Englishman devoted to her and the joy and pride they have in the birth of their son. Now, that’s the theme of Kipling’s beautiful, but sad story, Paddy."

As if I’m just going to be content with that, Ma; you’ve got to read the first part of the story to me tonight. What’s happening in this scene, for instance?

Edward, reading his German magazine, looks up and smiles at Amelia and then quotes from memory:

How old is he now?

"Ya illah! What a man’s question! He is all but six weeks old; and on this night I go up to the house-top with thee, my life, to count the stars. For this is auspicious. And he was born on a Friday, under the sign of the Sun, and it has been told to me that he will outlive us both and get wealth. Can we wish for aught better, beloved?"

There is nothing better. Let us go up to the roof, and thou shalt count the stars—but a few only, for the sky is heavy with cloud.

The winter rains are late, and maybe they come out of season. Come, before all the stars are hid. I have put on my richest jewels.

Thou hast forgotten the best of all.

"Ai! Ours. He comes also. He has never yet seen the skies."

Edward pauses, smiling.

Your father, isn’t he amazing? Edward, my darling, after all these years, you still remember these lines! I’ve never told you, Paddy, but your father took this story of ‘Without Benefit of Clergy’ and turned it into a beautiful play in which he and I acted the last year of high school. It received the first prize; that’s how we first met, really. Out of a group of some ten girls anxious for the part—all wanting to appear on stage with dashing young Edward, I was picked—by the playwright himself—to take the part of Ameera, the Mohammedan girl, and he, of course, was Holden, the man you see in this illustration, the tall and handsome English Sahib. The English teacher’s baby was just eight weeks old, what a darling, and he was perfect for the part of the baby, little Tota, the parrot, as he was named. I’d say in the play: ‘He shall be Tota—our Tota to us. Hearest thou, oh, small one? Littlest, thou art Tota.’ Then I’d sing a little cradlesong to him: ‘Ah koko, Ja re koko!’ which says: ‘Oh, crow! Go crow!’ Then I’d add: ‘Baby’s sleeping sound, and the wild plums grow in the jungle, only a penny a pound—only a penny a pound, Baba—only a penny a pound.’ Your father and I and the rest of the cast ended up putting on our play at over a dozen different clubs and barracks. We could have taken it on the road, but that would have spoiled our studies. For years high schools have put on this play. It was so touching, Paddy. People crying all over; I sobbing in the wings when the cast came out to take a bow.

Then, like a voice off stage, Edward repeats a section from the closing of the play, in which Durga Dass, the rich landlord of the house overlooking the city, speaks aloud in words crafted by Kipling himself: When the birds have gone, what need to keep the nest? It shall be pulled down, and the municipality shall make a road across, as they desire, from the burning-ghat to the city wall. So that no man may say where this house stood.

Oh, Edward, Amelia wails, getting up from her chair and running to her husband’s side. Edward throws his hands out to receive her and holds her as she cries.

My poor girl! You feel for them like you did when you first heard these lines. He gently draws her down onto his lap, holding her close to him.

From the front door Rover barks several times.

That bloody dog! What’s he doing in the front of the house? Coachman is going to get it too! Edward says, getting up.

There’s a knock on the front door. Telegram, Sir, a timid voice calls out. Rover keeps on barking at the man.

Edward opens the large teak front door. Rover, on the steps, wags his tail at his master, hoping for forgiveness. Edward instead charges at the dog. Rover turns and runs for his life toward the shelter of Coachman’s room.

Dad, how mean! says Paddy, catching a glimpse of Rover streaking through the night.

You better go and sleep in Coachman’s room with your bloody dog then, Edward says, taking the telegram which he opens and reads aloud slowly, the teletype faint: How about spending a couple of days at the Estate? My little Kamala attacked by a leopard and its cub. We can sit up one or two nights. Buy box of shells at Spencers. Charge to my account. Fishing is good. Flocks of teal on lake. Bring some Bangalore bread and butter. Do you have any dogs to leave here? Buddy.

*

The rain that night washes down the city, making the tile roofs dazzling red, the gardens and trees bright and green and the sky cloudless and blue. Coachman, dressed in freshly ironed khakis, loads the carriage down with the luggage near three in the afternoon for the trip to the station. Sultan, rested and well-brushed, is rearing to get started, but Coachman hangs a canvas bag of boiled gram for the horse, urging the gelding to nibble at it while the family comes down.

The Captain emerges with his gun in its case and two fly fishing rods; behind him is his wife in white slacks and a light red blouse. Paddy dashes out behind his parents, with Rover ahead on his leash, tugging and dragging. There had been an earlier argument about taking the dog, but Paddy won out, saying that his Grandma Brady hadn't seen Rover since he was a puppy and it was she who got him for Paddy in the first place. Coachman stands smartly by the carriage as the family gets in.

At City Station, a dozen coolies run to the Victorian carriage and surround it, shouting to be chosen. The load is light, requiring only one coolie. Coachman threatens to drive them off with his whip. Finally, as he comes to a halt, he selects an old coolie in a red shirt and khaki pants and slippers made out of old rubber tires. Once a strong man, the coolie now shows the strain of years of lifting heavy boxes and trunks, the veins on his neck bloated, cross-eyed (as Amelia thinks) from carrying large head loads. A hacking cough shakes his once robust frame, but he needs the work. Coachman nods to him and the coolie touches the carriage with a gnarled hand, his sign to the others to stay off. The rest stand on the sidewalk and taunt Coachman, whispering, yet loud enough so he can hear, calling him the son of the Devil and other unpleasant names in Tamil. Coachman turns quickly and cracks his whip at them, lashing a few of the bold young ones; the rest, laughing, back off quickly away from the reach of the whip.

We're on time, Sir, Coachman says in a pleasant courteous voice as the Captain jumps out.

Load up the suitcases on the coolie and then you can go on home. You don't have to wait.

Thank you, Sir, Coachman nods as he eyes the crowds spilling out from a train that has just come in from Poona on the Deccan. Once the family is settled on the station, he plans on picking up travelers for the ride to the city, making some extra money which his wife waits for, hoping to buy another new sari. He has his eye on a silk blouse he plans to buy with the hope of offering it to the grass cutter’s daughter to gain her favor some day. She’s young and flirts with him, even putting on lipstick and perfume when she sees him. He plans to see her at her grass hut on his way home, when he’ll stop to buy hay from her father and to have some toddy with him. With the family away he'll moonlight with the carriage for a week and pull in extra money every day, free as a bird, only to be bullied by his wife, who’d get most of his earnings through shouting and screaming. In the night, if he could swing it, he'd buy a few bottles of grog and he and the cook, the grass cutter, and a few other friends would eat hot grog-shop chops on white bread and get drunk on the crystal clear liquor, so pure that a match held to it makes it burn blue. Coachman is a dreamer, living in a world in which he is either outfoxing the Marwari on interest payments on long overdue loans or trying to dodge his wife, always dreaming of the grass cutter’s lovely daughter, slim and with pure white teeth and a happy laugh. From his vantage point from the driving seat of the Victorian carriage he eyes the big color cinema poster with its life-size actresses, their voluptuous forms thrust at him, their eyes on his, beckoning.

The old coolie, after a coughing spell, reaches in the carriage for the leather suitcases, not seeing Rover tucked in under Paddy’s feet. The dog rears up like a bear and with a loud woof grabs the coolie’s red shirt sleeve. The poor man shouts for help as he pulls hard from the dog, legs braced against the carriage door. Rover, growling, pulls even harder, jerking the skinny man forward, banging him up against the carriage.

Stop it, Rover, the Captain orders, hitting the dog on its snout with his swagger stick. Rover yelps, jumping back onto the seat. Paddy, you fool, why didn’t you watch out? You and Coachman are two damn idiots, I say. Wool gathering; putting this poor man’s life in danger. Now look at him how he’s run off in fright to hide behind that tree. It’s not funny, Paddy. I’m surprised at you too, Amelia, laughing as if it’s a big bloody joke. We’re going to get into trouble over this dog. I warned you both we shouldn’t bring him. But no, you both get your own way. I have a good mind to call this whole trip off.

Look at you, says Amelia, red as a beet root! Calm down, Captain.

The coolies on the sidewalk cheer. You wanted to carry the Captain's suitcases, one calls out after the old coolie. You didn't know there was a black panther inside ready to eat your skinny arms!

The old coolie regains his dignity, picks up a stick from a blind beggar at the side of the road and charges his red-shirted companions on the sidewalk. They scatter in all directions; some tripping over boxes and luggage, screaming with laughter, shouting in Tamil for the gods to save them from a madman. The old coolie singles out a small-built young man who taunted him the most. The young man runs down the road, discarding his slippers, dodging hand carts, bullock carts and oncoming cars to disappear among a village of squatters on the station grounds. The old coolie finds the discarded slippers and he offers them to a pig rooting around in the gutter. The creature, big with large tusks, hardly removed from his jungle kin, grabs the slippers and runs down the drain grunting, thankful for some leather straps to chew on. The coolie, wrapping his red turban tightly around his head, quickly returns to the carriage. He examines his arm for teeth marks in his dark skin.

Did the dog bite you? Amelia asks in Tamil. You poor man; and coughing so much.

"Nothing, memsahib. I’ve been bitten before. It's those devils of mine that I want to grind into masala."

Last time I was here I gave you some money to see the doctor. Did you do it?

What, Memsahib, I’ve never been to see a doctor in my life. I used your money for food for my wife and children that day.

The coolie bends to his task, helped by Coachman, and stacks the three suitcases on the ground. With a quick deft move, he lifts the whole load onto his head, his slender legs buckling, and then regaining their strength. The wicker basket of food for the journey is picked up last by its handle and the coolie trots off toward the Guntakal Express.

Goodbye, Captain Sahib, the Coachman calls. Goodbye, Memsahib. Goodbye, Paddy.

Goodbye Coachman, the family calls as they follow their coolie to the train, pushing through the crowded station filled with Kanarese and Tamil people and groups of English soldiers and units of Gurkhas. Steam and smoke from the engines fill the platform, making it difficult to see the whole length of the station; on the roof of the waiting trains whole troops of monkeys rule, running up and down, reaching down when they can to steal bananas, bread, and samosas from passengers and vendors. Paddy and his mother laugh when one young monkey tries to steal a cup of tea, dropping the hot tea on passengers and himself, but still holding onto the cup with both hands. At a safe place near the steam engine, the monkey stops and slowly tastes the remnants of his afternoon tea.

Clever devil, isn’t he? says a familiar voice. Specializes in stealing tea but gives the cup back, though; real gentleman!

Amelia and Paddy swing around. Dizzy! Amelia exclaims. Are you the guard for today’s train?

Are you disappointed? How are you, darling Amelia? the tall guard in his sparkling white uniform and pea cap says, his red and green woolen flags rolled up tightly and tucked under his left arm. In his right hand, he holds a cup of coffee, which he puts down on a stack of camouflaged army boxes. He pulls Amelia to him, kissing her a couple of times. You look so good, my girl. Off to your brother’s place for a few days?

Edward has a week before he leaves. I’m surprised he didn’t hear you. Look, he’s still marching ahead with the coolie.

Hello, Uncle, says Paddy, as he stands holding Rover.

I say, Paddy, who told you to bring this black bugger on my railway? You know they won’t even take him in the brake van. This dog is a killer, Son. And, didn’t they tell you the leopards at your uncle’s place are taking dogs right and left. There may be a man-eating leopard up there. Oh, did you hear about Buddy’s Station Master’s daughter?

Yes, he mentioned it in his telegram.

I went through Gokulpuram station two days ago and he told me a leopard mauled her.

That poor child. How bad was it?

Thirty stitches done by old Dr. Gopal. She had a nasty fever and was getting injections.

Such bad luck. His wife died when the girl was born and now a leopard attacks her child.

He told me he wanted to move out from there after his wife Pushpa died, says Paddy.

Buddy wants Edward to sit up with him for the leopard. He wanted a box of heavy shells. You know Buddy, that child is precious to him, like his own. That leopard’s days are numbered.

You’re right. That little girl is Buddy’s life. He still talks about the death of her mother.

Well, so this is the hold up! says Edward, in his booming voice, returning from looking for a place on the train, the coolie trotting behind him.

Hello Eddie, old chap. How are you?

I’m fine. Are you on this train too, Dizzy?

Yes, and guess what? When I saw your names on the list, I crossed over the lines to where the train was getting put together by the shunter and I selected the best damn coupe you can find. It’s brand new, Edward. It’s got all the latest stuff in it. Plush as ever. The war is on and money is pouring in. The railway is getting ready for the Army brass. You and Amelia will enjoy it.

Well, that is really nice of you, says Amelia, giving Dizzy a kiss.

Just put Paddy and this black devil in the brake van and you both can live it up! What do you say, Paddy Baba?

No fears! I’ll ride with the driver then.

The lad thinks he owns the Indian railway, doesn’t he?

Well, my grandfather built this section of the line. And Dad’s father, remember, he took the first engine out on this section of track!

And who built this big station do you think?

Who?

My grandfather! Come, let’s go. We have only five minutes more. I’ve locked the coupe up so nobody can get in. It’s down near the end. But why are you taking this dog up to Buddy’s estate I don’t know. Must want to offer him up as a sacrifice. Say the word, and I’ll get someone to take him back home, Paddy. That’s where he belongs. He’s a handsome dog!

I told this boy about the panther, but he won’t listen, Edward says. This black devil’s used up two lives already. He attacked the photographer and just now he tried to take an arm off this poor, half-dead coolie.

Well, Edward, let’s not pick on Paddy anymore. We’ll all be lost without Rover, plus Mums wants to see him, Amelia says, putting her arm around her son.

Just watch out for the boy and his dog in the evenings, my love. Make sure they’re in the house and the door is locked. You’re going into black panther country, remember.

The whistle blows loud and long.

Who’s driving, Uncle?

Tommy O’Keene with Doug D’Souza as his first fireman.

These kids grow up, Eddie says, as he helps Amelia up. Doug D’Souza! That boy was playing marbles just a few days ago, it seems. I heard his brother is a pilot now.

Paddy gets Rover onto the train. Thanks, Uncle Dizzy, for making the arrangements for Rover, he says, hugging his dog.

"Pull the shutters down, son. You don’t want some running staff reporting that you have a dog in there. Then I will have to investigate!"

Thanks again, Dizzy, Amelia says, hugging the guard goodbye.

The whistle blows again and Dizzy White unfurls his green flag and smartly waves it high above his head, holding his guard’s lantern up, showing green toward the engine. Dizzy is a big man, with red hair and a large mustache that he likes to wax and curl up. He’s worked on the railway from the day he wrote his high school exams and is up for a promotion soon, hoping to be appointed Assistant Station Master.

The coolie holds out his hand for his money. Amelia, the Captain calls. I need two four-anna pieces, Love.

The Captain hands the coolie the money as the train starts to move. The coolie immediately says it is too little and hands the coins back to the Captain.

How can I eat with that, Sir, he says, walking along with the train.

Well, then, I’ll keep it!

But Amelia takes the coins from her husband and holds out a fresh rupee note for the coolie. He takes it, a smile breaking on his face, happy for his wage. He salaams and disappears in the crowd.

Dizzy walks with the train; the family leans out of their coupe, talking to him.

How’s Birdie? Amelia asks, I saw her early this week in the market, that’s all.

Well, what do you think, Amelia? She went to see the doctor at the clinic today. He says she is in the family way!

Again!

Yes, again!

Dizzy! Amelia scolds.

"What to do? You know what the Bible says: children are a blessing from the Lord!"

Well, I don’t know whether to congratulate you or not, Amelia shouts out as the train picks up speed. Dizzy swings into his guard’s compartment; and hanging at the brass rail, waves the green light, the wind ruffling his crisp white uniform. He throws a kiss to Amelia and gives the victory sign to Edward.

*

The railway bearer comes in near ten that night to remove the supper trays of mutton curry, parathas and salad, with strawberry jello for dessert. By then, Paddy is asleep, his mother’s precious book by Kipling at his side. The Bearer, dressed in white with a turban, chats in Tamil with the Captain and his wife. His name is Nondi, for he is lame in his left leg from jumping off a train in his youth. He’s found a girl he wants to marry and he talks about her most of the time and listens to the advice the family gives him about family planning and the need to save up his money and not spend it on drink like his father and grandfather. Gathering up the dishes, he promises to heed the advice. Then he shares his main dilemma: Sunita, the girl, is of a lower caste than his. She is of the sweeper caste and cleans bathrooms on the train. I’ll have to leave my caste, which is the tailor caste, to join her caste.

So what does that mean? asks Edward.

I won’t be able to serve food, Sir. And I can’t stitch clothes for people. I’ll have to start cleaning bathrooms with her and become a sweeper myself. But I love Sunita very much, Sir.

Edward and Amelia look at each other in pain. Nondi, balancing his tray of empty dishes, opens the door and slowly swings down into the night on his good leg as the train comes to a small station lit by kerosene lamps. This is your station, Sir, he announces.

It’s come quicker than I thought, Amelia says, trying to wake Paddy.

A villager in a white dhoti stands on the platform, holding up a dull hurricane lamp, smoky from a cracked glass, shouts out the name of the station in a high pitched voice, Gokulpuram … Gokulpuram … Gokulpuram …

The engine grinds slowly to a halt, the firebox wide open, illuminating the end of the platform, throwing shadows as the firemen tend to the box. Villagers with buckets beg the driver to give them hot water. Nondi, the bearer, hobbles quickly along the platform toward a compartment near the engine from which he calls a family out and hurries them towards Edward’s coupe, now empty. He is making a little extra money by providing the family a comfortable place to sleep.

Just watch Nondi, Amelia laughs, observing the little drama while Edward holds onto Rover and tries to get Paddy on his feet.

An old Marathi woman, her yellow sari tucked between her legs, mounts up the steps to the coupe while Nondi urges her, in broken Hindi, to get up quickly. On reaching the top, she helps pull up her husband, a frail man in a Gandhi cap and white homespun clothes. A young woman is the next. She is lithe and pretty in a maroon sari, her skin fair, with jewelry on her ankles and toes, bangles on her wrists, rings on all her fingers, a heavy gold chain around her neck, and large rings in her ears. She turns and looks at the Captain’s family for a moment, her beautiful eyes shining from the hurricane lamp, her white blouse high up from her waist, well past her belly, revealing a portion of her fair breasts. Her husband, looking like a pundit, is dressed like the old man, but wears a black woolen waistcoat over his slight paunch. Behind them are the mounds of heavy luggage carried by the only coolie at the station.

Well, Nondi should make enough on that move, the Captain says to Amelia.

The air is cool at the station, for they are higher up than Bangalore. Hills are all around, and the night dark and clear with stars. Only a few passengers get off at the tiny station. Dizzy, the guard sounds his whistle and gives the green light. The engine responds with its shrill whistle, steam hissing out, sending billows of smoke, as she pulls out. Villagers running along still trying to catch hot water from a copper spout which trails out from near the large shiny wheels; others, mostly women, stand content with brass pots of hot water on their heads, watching the train move out.

Wake up, Paddy, my Boy, Dizzy White shouts, as his van speeds by the family. "I