The queer story of John Banks

My grandfather was in the engineering services of the railways , Once , while still an undergrad , he received scholarship to study in the UK, during those halcyon days of the British raj (It was one of the family legends).This was his story.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning in Scotland . The moors were awash with purple heather and greenery. There was this  garden in front of the hostel , where I lived . Across the road.
I would carry my books , after breakfast , and sit in the sun for good part of the morning , savouring the countryside . On this particular Sunday , an old gentleman walked in through the wicker gates . Carefully latching it behind him . Force of habit , I thought.

He silently doffed his soiled and battered cap at my cheerful greetings. Then he came and sat on the very bench I was sitting on. He smelt of the earth , heather , and a strange musty pungency . He sat silently , sunning himself , then asked me , in husky undertones , "Where you from , young man?"
I replied , tersely"India ". Not trusting him to know anything about India.

He smiled , as if he already knew . Then launched into a remarkable soliloquy.

"I was in the 33rd regiment Bengal native infantry . Then I was sent to fight in Kabul. "

I did quick mental maths. This was 1930, and the Kabul war was fought in 1842 , that meant close to 90 years ago . Blimey. I opened my mouth to interrupt , but he carried on , totally unaware of my gasps .

"Then General Henry Lawrence was killed at the Lucknow seige ."

Goodness! He was talking about 1857 sepoy mutinee. I didn't know how to react , other than listening with rapt attention . Old age onset dementia was known to be punctuated with hallucinations . He continued .

"I was made the civil commissioner . Lucknow burnt . All around the residency , there was unspeakable outrage . Disbanded rebel sepoys poured in from Bengal . The Biharis and Telengas . It was terrible . General Havelock was stuck at Unao. Wave upon wave of attacks by rebel forces , weakened us .It was 17 days since the general's death. We were low on morale.  It was July 21st morning , a sniper post west of the residency , sent a signal of warning . The boys were terrified to investigate. So I got the syce to saddle my horse , and I rode out to the post . The city was ghostly silent around me .My trusted  Risaldar -major  followed me , at a distance . His gun cocked for any trouble .

When I reached the post , I halted at the base of the machan , I called out his name .No answer. I think he was called  Sipahi Makhan Lal. After calling out his name the third time in a row , we both dismounted , and prepared to climb the machan . The Risaldar had his gun cocked ,and I stuck a boot in the bamboo ladder .I must have climbed a few steps when some bullets sang past me . The Risaldar  shouted a warning and an expletive in Hindustani , at the same time . But it was too late . I felt a thump in my chest , the bloody thing tore through my sash of gold braid . To my horror , it turned crimson in a trice. As I fell off the ladder, a bullet caught me in the forehead , and all went dark .

Next when I came to , my risaldar major was panting and bleeding from his arms and neck, but had me pinioned beneath him , riding away from a pursuing bunch of rebels , hot on his heels .

But he made it to the sanctuary of the residency . A volley of shots from the guards turned the rebel horsemen back. "

The old man became silent after this out burst .

It was my turn to ask "Why are you telling me this now ? It  all happened so long ago ."

He turned to me , for the first time . I took in his wrinkled , dusty face and the dusty cap , and an agony in his old eyes .

"For they no longer tend to my gravesite . My name is Major John Sherbrooke Banks ,I lie buried in a cemetery in Lucknow . I know you are from Lucknow , so find me and get my tomb cleaned ."

Blood froze in my veins as I saw the torn gold braid on his chest , darkened with soil and something else . Sun shone brilliantly on the old man , his brass buttons gleaming briefly through the dust and then poof ! Just like that , he vanished.

Grandpa did find the grave of this gentleman officer and had it cleaned up . He did invite the ire of his swadeshi friends though.

To hide or not to hide

Nature is known to camouflage .

We all have seen arctic fox , that changes the colour of its coat . During winters , it turns snowy white , to blend with its icy surroundings, and during spring it has a mixed coat of greys , whites and blacks , to match its rocky surroundings , with rocks being exposed as the snow melts .

Everyone also knows about that giant called polar bear , which has only black eyes and claws , to tell it apart from the expanse of frozen white it inhabits.

Babblers , a group of noisy , chatty birds are  dusty, greyish brown in colour , which merge very well with the dustbowls or grasslands they inhabit .

 A grey brown squirrel is difficult to spot when it sits quietly on a tree trunk . There are rattle snakes that snuggle in sandy depressions on the desert floor , even sprinkling sand over themselves, in order to make themselves invisible .

Nature is also known to un-camouflage . An equal number of examples can be given of animals that have no qualms being the proverbial sore thumb . They stand out in a crowd , do not blend in , are noisy, where quiet would ensure survival , are slow where speed means life , and are garishly coloured , sometimes harshly so , where being mundane brown would have made blending and hence survival , easier/ surer.

There is a small , pretty bird , which is less famous than peacock or macaws. It is called the small bee-eater . The very name implying there must exist a bigger cousin of this bird , unknown to us. People who have seen the Dwayne Johnson movie "Journey to the mysterious island " will remember the cast of characters being attacked by a bird , while riding bees (for in the Jules Verne story , birds and bees are magnified , mammals dwarfed).That bird is a "small" bee eater.

It has a natural , exaggerated black mascara streak around its eyes, a lovely sky blue eyeshadow , bright green plumage , a needle sharp tail and a black beak . It may or may not have a redhead. It darts around and is totally visible , even as a streak of green in a dismally monochromatic scrubland.

Next of course are the showy dancers , over whom generations of poets have swooned, the peacock . Also the chattering macaws , the undisputed ,colourfully caped , noisy citizens of Brazilian rainforests.

The tamarind seller

He came everyday , on bicycle , pedalling , winding his way rather , slowly , smilingly , savouring all that came his way . He was in no hurry .

Then he would reach this giant tamarind tree , and alight . Untie a bundle sitting behind , on the "carrier", one meant to carry .

A red cloth spread on the ground beside the road , right beneath the tamarind tree . He would climb up , and shake the ripened pods . Once his simple fare collected , he produced a simple system of weights , made up of twigs and stones , to weigh , sell and collect a meagre sum of money , mostly in coins . It was almost like begging .Almost . But not quite.

They said , tamarind trees harbour ghosts . At nightfalls , he had often seen bicyclists , like him , and hardened street urchins too , hasten past , eyes lowered , lips muttering incoherent prayers . Fear was a great leveller . Fear of the unknown , at that too .

But he was at home in the lush , thorny branches . He could climb with the  agility of a monkey , and sit , camouflaged within all the sour scents of raw "imli", and the lush greenness of its fine tooth-comb like leaves , chuckling , silently at all that went on in the street below .

Sometimes , some tooth-picking rogues would gather around , accusing him of stealing something , that did not belong to him . He would smile , as they emptied his small battered aluminium bowl of the few coins he had managed to collect since morning. This infuriated them all the more . They would kick the red -ripe pods , and crush them under their boots , turning back to laugh at him as he picked them clean and replaced back .

Or he would simply climb up and shake down a fistful of green ones . The girls' from the school liked the green unripe ones . Making faces as the sharpness hit them . Hissing like a bunch of geese. Gigglers.

That day , he had no ripe ones . A girl requested him for a ripe pod . She stood beneath the tree, and gave him directions , authoritatively . "This one , no no, that one , brother ." His heart melted at her words . Brother . No one calls him that . And then his foot slipped . Negotiating these branches all his life , and he still had to slip .

The school girls had screamed . Scattered . Some people rushed in . Stood .Perplexed . Some went to call for help, get more men.

He sat watching, crouching , amidst sour smelling imlis and green and red baby leaves of fine tooth comb tamarind leaves , as they prepared, to cart him away.