The ride beyond Mand, a far flung outpost in the distant province of Mekran, was uncomfortable to the extreme, but turned into an exercise of fortitude as the Land-Rover gave way six miles short of the outpost. This strong saloon vehicle, the only one of its kind in the whole establishment, had decided to call it a day and panted to a halt. The truck following with an escort and our kit had not been seen or heard of for hours. We had been up since dawn and except for a short midday break, were on the track to catch up before nightfall. This was an inspection tour of the farthest borders of Mekran where it merges with Iran. Since the terrain is no different, there is no knowing where the two borders demarcate; only an outpost building garrisoned by the levies gave any clue to the whereabouts, for roads did not exist. It was one vast stretch of land on which routes formed as a matter of course with caravans blazing the trail.

I suffered the indignity of being hauled onto a camel with my two girls. Another escort party had managed to produce this ungainly, indifferent beast. Since the post had to be reached before sundown this ’Ship of the Desert’ was set into motion with the heaving, clumsy movements of this animal. I made a mental note to research that this lofty title which could only have been bestowed by a romantic who never sat on a camel but saw the beast silhouetted against the horizon topped with a crescent moon and some date palms, providing the backdrop for illusions of romantic titles, like ‘Desert Shaikh’. Once in motion this beast is capable of making one feel that all the discs have slipped in one’s vertebrae.

After what seemed like eons of medieval torture of the Attilian sort, the honor-guard was spotted looming large, as the flat desert land gives gigantic illusions of dimension to even birds, not to mention camels and human forms. I insisted on dismounting my undignified chariot despite the pleas of our old Chitrali bearer Sajjad Khan, who being a mountain man thoroughly despised the whole venture. I sat for a while on a flat rock to bring some semblance of calm to my ruffled ego, and then started to walk with a vigour entirely assumed. Gideon, the factotum was made to climb aloft and hold the girls. Never one for emergencies he was at his worst atop the camel, the babies wanting to push him out. With every downward movement of the camel, there was constant noise of bullying and beseeching, interspersed by curses heaped out by the bearer on Gideon.  Being as usual ignorant of everything worthwhile, which included riding a camel with the kids, he was the recipient of volleys of abuse sent upwards by the Chitrali.

The landscape was uninteresting, flat, and sandy with rock formations, indicating it could have been a sea-bed at some period of time. The distances between habitations were long and tiring, nothing under the three-digit distance i.e. hundred miles and above. It took days to cover a journey, normally covered in A few hours. The country is in fact ‘Miles and Miles of Miles and Miles. I had read this definition somewhere and it could have been minted for Mekran.

Having regained my composure, I scanned the surroundings; the Colonel pointed at a strong grey structure with watchtowers on four corners of the sandstone walls. Inside it, troubles civil and uncivil, were sorted out by an emissary of the LAT Sahib (Viceroy); the tribes had to be contained, pacified and much importance attached to their petty but perpetual wrangling consisting of such earth-shaking events as paternity suits, grazing land disputes and claim for damage to crops. This was much exaggerated, for the desert consisted of thick jungles of date palms and large scale crop farming was not even contemplated.  Occasionally a blood feud would erupt and required attention from the ‘powers to be’.

Almost parallel to the fortress a patch of vivid green appeared. This was no mirage but a real oasis, as if the skies had inadvertently dropped a UFO of flora and fauna on the desert. Between this genuine oasis and the outpost could be seen the outline of three tents; a survey team was in the vicinity mapping out the watercourse. I was ready to abandon our sorry entourage and make straight for the greenery but had to contain my enthusiasm as the oasis would be ‘out of bound after sunset’- army jargon for restricting movement. In case of any emergency however, an armed escort would be enough.

We entered the massive gates of the outpost where a comfortably furnished set of rooms was kept locked but in readiness for the LAT Sahib’s representative. Very seldom such an event took place. The wireless was preceding our itinerary and hence everything was laid out which enhanced the importance of this visit. The building had been touched up with white lime and a ceremonial arch of date palms erected; gleaming hurricane lamps, china and cutlery and plush blankets laid out. Water was lugged painstakingly to the toilets; in fact the works, so to say. There would be roast deer and later an old musician named ‘Shavel’ would strum out bawdy folk songs for which he was renowned.

Chiefs and elders of the area had also arrived to be present at the Durbar next day. Such a welcome did not merit a detour sideways to the oasis for it not only broke protocol but hearts as well. The lonely contingent dwelling on this windswept plain had little contact with the outside world of the Sahibs. The Sarkar (government) was benevolent otherwise and this visit had been anxiously awaited. I was conducted to the five star suite by the old Chitrali who had faithfully travelled everywhere with us. Gideon was one mass of cushions, bags and the girls clamouring to be carried. Upstairs he and the bearer were our personal retainers; the rest of the panoply came with the job. Gideon was a polite version of the name ‘Gidda’ (dwarf) bestowed in generic form on his family. One member of the family was dispatched to us regularly for reasons of making their way up in the world.

Gideon was third in succession to this family of short-legged potential, government employees, and part of his grooming for obtaining a high position in the hierarchy of Babus (clerks) was to do general domestic chores like dusting, shoe shining, ironing, keeping house-hold accounts. For an hour every day he was elevated to the role of school teacher and hated such exposure of his academic prowess when the girls wanted him to turn somersaults instead. Although a graduate he had barely managed to clear the exam on the lowest rung of the ladder. The Chitrali bearer maintained stoutly that his degree was forged. We, however, were used to having one Gideon with us as there were nine of them. Occasionally when the Colonel was on tour Gideon doubled up as camp-clerk and loathed the honor for he could neither spell, nor write correctly. These varied hats of office which he wore on his large head entailed that he dress-up for the part, and he would wear Militia fabric bush-shirt and knickers with knee-length woollen stockings from which his knees protruded like twin skulls, indicating the physique he would endow his progeny with. Needless to say he came under severe barrage of fire from both the Colonel and the bearer, the latter referred to his ancestry in very basic terms and Gideon took it all for he was glad of a kindred spirit and felt less lonely under the old bearer’s chaff and good natured abuse.

I thankfully flopped on the bed and leaned across the windowpane to gaze straight into the oasis. A few hundred yards to its left, three tents belonging to the survey team were pitched. They had been cold-shouldered by the post commander, breaking a tradition of goodwill and hospitality extended to all visitors. These were pretty few except those who came under stress of service. This was automatically practiced all along the frontier border posts and more so in this no man’s land for in this sandy waste of Mekran even the chief towns names symbolised  “ultimate doom” in terms of meaning: Panjgoor (five graves), Turbat (single grave).

Once the dak-lorry left Kalat one would marvel at the calibre of the tough people who inhabited such desolation. Officially this posting was equated with a medieval pilgrimage accounting for the hardships one went through. My mind wandered from the furnishings to the landscape and then to the girls tired after a long dusty journey. Below in the enclosed patch of a ground a mini-ceremonial was taking place. Loud yells of ‘order arms’ ‘present arms’ coupled with the clanging of the proclaimed arms indicated the Colonel was inspecting the honour guard. Was he aware of the tremendous lick and polish that had been put into this turn-out? Or was he preoccupied with political blackbirds which he was expected to bake in a pie and put before the Agent-General in Quetta? For the Viceroy’s envoy had to coat even the most trivial of incidents with pompous phrases – a favourite gambit of the Raj – to give exaggerated attention and importance to ordinary mundane situations so that every clan felt they had a stake in the strings of power.

Loud orders of parade dispersed, signalled that the levies had been inspected and praised on their smart turn out and could be at ease. From my window I could look across and hear the wireless crew put up their stall, for this was our only means of communication with the civilised world. The Colonel strode in and stripping himself of all the unnecessary regalia – without which no soldier would venture outdoors – stretched out for the first time since sun-up with a stiff drink beside him. Such medicinal spirits were abundantly available. Large quantities were stocked for use of the Sahibs.

It was generally conceded that the consumption of hard liquor did not in any way impair religion or morals, besides the Sahib log were working and living under conditions of Takleef (strain).

The inspection visits or ‘gashts’ as they mere known, were very much a part of border life on the Durand line. The local levies were recruited and knocked into shape by a few army regulars, then given martial titles. The scruffy looking locals changed visibly in uniform and for added tone had their separate crests. They were commanded by an army officer who also doubled up as Political Agent in a Jekyll and Hyde role when occasion demanded. This post consisted of discipline tempered by specified politics, since it was the last in no man’s land. Travellers and mere way-farers were always given a helping hand.

The conditions of ‘Takleef’ were compensated with sizeable pay packets and large T.A. bills, plus unlimited facilities. In fact, it was travel cushioned by every comfort and privilege that was possible in the frontiers service of His Britannic Majesty’s Government. It also meant authority and almost supremacy over vast territories spanned by His Majesty’s Indian Dominions Borderlands.

In Quetta one was elite as during the short trips allowed, the AGG (Agent to the Governor General) was host, which meant Government House.  I enjoyed the parties in the glittering rooms of the mansion. The senior army brass as too the ICS (Indian Civil Service) officers were staggeringly knowledgeable about the remotest areas and made it their business to learn the language – even dialects – and took infinite pains to keep themselves informed of all that took place on both sides of the border.

I was much praised for electing to stay in the wilderness. In a way it was an interesting break from the usual form of posting, as I would not have pioneered an exploration in those lands. While moving along the borders under conditions of the much publicised ‘Takleef Syndrome’, was in fact the most comfortable and privileged method of acquiring knowledge of the people and the places.

Occasionally I felt like the fabled fifth rider astride a donkey heading for Delhi with four horse riders. He would loudly proclaim to queries by passersby that ‘We five horsemen are going to Delhi (Ham panchon Sawar Dilli ja Rahey hain) The quartet on sleek steeds would maintain a dignified silence. For me the desire to associate with the Colonel’s career was not exactly like the donkey rider’s position in the old fable, but I felt close to being labeled as such. When enquiries were made about where the mem-sahib was heading for, I would reply importantly that we were heading for Mekran, Wakhan, Badakhshan or Kashgar,

This period of roaming on the borderland was easily the most peaceful, untroubled period of my life. During a recent halt at Quetta, before coming to Mekran I met the Commissioner’s wife Celia at a dinner, a shy woman in her early thirties. I had known her at another station slightly but was delighted to renew acquaintance. The Governor’s wife Nan was an affectionate, down to earth lady, without the usual hang ­ups of mem-sahibs in exalted stations; she would make an enormous fuss of my two girls, letting them run loose in the Residency garden among strawberry beds.  indeed both were picture book babies, fair and chubby, dimpled and curly, sunny-tempered, so their charm exuded like an open bottle of perfume. I was tremendously proud of them.

Probably it was Celia’s wistful expression that prompted the Governor’s lady to tell me to be sure and visit the shrine beyond Mand near the Iran borders and, “Don’t forget my dear, to send some dates and water for Celia, an authentic remedy for child-bearing”. Although it was said half jokingly the words had stayed in my mind. Yes, the shrine. I must find out more for we would not be here longer than forty-eight hours. How could I have forgotten?

So many others had also asked for “tabarruk” (sacrements) and I had blithely promised to bring back what I could. However, this last lap of the journey had turned all my pious intentions to undignified discomfort. The Colonel dozed off being able to command sleep; both the girls were chuckling at Gideon’s rendering of Mother Goose rhymes! This was a part of his penance offered for joining the establishment. The old Chitrali was throwing his weight around as I could hear him haranguing everyone. He firmly believed that all matters urgent or otherwise should be conducted through his good offices, via the memsahib in the interest of state. That is how it was, and how it should be. He had no use for terms like top-secret, confidential or ‘eyes only’.

Yes, we were all known as memsahibs.  It was no mean achievement for the native officers’ wives who exulted in being addressed or referred to as memsahib. The word radiated an aura around its incumbent which produced a gleam in their eyes. The “Begum” tornado came later when the title was assumed by a former first lady and all of us rode the crest of the Begum wave one time or a other. I cringed at both titles; one was so pseudo and the other feudal, but got used to both. Only Gideon, coming from the homestead, addressed me as Bibi-ji and would be soundly cuffed by the bearer for this ignorance of protocol.

My mind wandered back to the shrine and I looked across the plain with binoculars.  Only the tents and oasis came within range.  At a considerable distance were flecks of what could be nomadic dwellings. On impulse I slipped out clutching the small Agfa in one hand. I longed to walk the desert in its eventide beauty and perhaps even reach the tantalising orchard. The sun’s orb was slowly descending, a most enchanting sight in the desert. I walked quickly down a passage and softly opening the door I was startled to face two uniformed levies and realised I had landed on a watch tower. The equally startled levies quickly came to attention. I descended the staircase, bypassing another pair of astonished armed sentries. The Land Rover I noticed had been towed over by a pair of camels. Who suffered more? The beast, unable to talk, or the vehicle, a mute victim of madly jolting metal.

Meantime, alerted by the guards the bearer came running down. “Shouldn’t huzoor (the presence) be resting?”  I fibbed that the Col.Sahib said it was alright and he should get back to the children at once. He agreed readily for this faithful old man had a diplomatic loyalty inbred in him.  He had been with us quite long and never dis­agreed with anything the Colonel or I said, however contradictory we might sound. He even agreed with us that the sandy wastes were beautiful, fully aware that we knew how much he detested the scorched terrain in comparison to his own valleys and pine-clad mountains. As a last remonstrance, he added that the post-commander being responsible, had requested the mem-sahib not to venture too far. I told him to be sure and set extra plates as Safar Maina (Sapper and Mines) sahibs would be joining us. These were the survey team officials who had been given short-shrift by the post-commander.

What in the name of photography was one to snap around here? I decided to save the shots and wandered in the direction opposite the oasis. A small slope and the post building was out of sight. I was safe and alone, a state of mind much coveted by me. My feet meandered more than my mind and I quickened pace; the shrine again cropped up in my thoughts. I wanted to get the facts right; the shrine had been bestowed a mystique which confounded reality. The legend went that the saint was slain and after he had been consigned to his sandy grave, a fresh water spring sprouted and the desert wilderness around the resting place bloomed into a garden. Even plants that could not stand the desert climes flourished. Great store was set by the saint’s proximity to God. He seemed to be inter­ceding on almost any problem, specialising in invoking his grace for all worldly requirements. Sacraments from the shrine were very much in demand.

The setting sun created a neon-like effect on the white sand and coral reef. I was breathless and decided to sit down for a respite before turning back as NO ROAMING AFTER SUNSET was a cardinal rule and I would be viewed in a dim light if disobeyed.

A few yards away two young men in Khaki stood waving to a young woman leading her dromedary towards the oasis. One is never alone I thought, though I assumed I was. The two young men raised their hats and smiled. I said hello and were they playing truant as I was? My camera beside me, I was letting the clean sand run through my fingers.

Both men hesitated a second and moved a few steps forward. I recognised them as Englishmen. Of course, they were the two survey officers. Dinner would be a pleasant affair, as after the cold-shouldering by the post-commander they would appreciate the food, drinks and above all gossip from the metropolis. I did not know we still had British officers on strength. A great many were being asked to stay on for they did their jobs thoroughly and their technical skill in executing complicated chores made them more then welcome when the sub-continent was emerging into the twin countries of India and Pakistan.

Fleetingly, I thought of many well-remembered faces doing their last stint in the service of the Raj. Now why would our young men with their liking for city-life, cars and rapid affluence come to this forsaken land? Looking dusty but blue eyes smiling after a grueling day, both these men reminded me of my younger brother nicknamed ‘GINGER’ in the cavalry. They stood looking un­certain while I prattled on as to how the Land-Rover broke down and we reached our destination late.

It seemed not to register with them. Then one who looked older and huskier of the two bowed, raising his hat, “Madam, we offer our compliments.  Captain Robin Hayes and Lt. David Sumpter at your service”. The younger man smiled shyly, also raising his hat. Capt. David continued, “Pray, do not rummage too much at sunset, the sands start shifting and many parasites and insects heave up for the cool night air”. Both men had a forlorn look about them and yet a moment ago I had appreciated their smiling demeanor.

I introduced myself and invited them to be seated along another reef apposite me. They replied that they knew exactly who I was. We chatted on for some time, then David pointed a damp spot a couple of feet from where I was sitting, “This,” he said, “is a sweet water spring, none but us know about it. We shall let you into the secret”. After a little scraping of shale sands, a smooth stone slab was lifted up by both officers and lo, a spout of clear water gushed up. I was simply enchanted and could not stop exclaiming. Robin took out an enamel mug from a haversack and I drank the cold water gratefully. The trudge along the sands had made me thirsty, the water was crystal clear and did not have the slimy alkaline taste of drinking water typical of these regions. Both men also drank copiously. I splashed some water on my face and to a suggestion we were about to wash our feet as well, David quietly said not to as the spring led to a reservoir which was used for drinking purposes.

They wore large, ugly looking Sola hats, the classic safe­guard against sunstroke, their uniforms and equipment appeared cumbersome and what with “boot puttees” they were altogether over­dressed for their surroundings, a sore point since the days of “Company Bahadur”. The British uniform was designed with complete disregard to the climate it would be worn in and since the officers were rigid in discipline and tradition they would never discard any part of the outfit, however superfluous.

Robin and David had a lot to talk about the people, places and customs round here. They also found the women merry and outgoing and commented on the uninhibited nature of the females! A most interesting gossip session ensued and I overlooked evening shadows which had lengthened. I leapt up and realized to my dismay that I had wiled away more than an hour. Both men looked crestfallen.  I had a fleeting sense of causing them un­happiness, however David assured me it had been a refreshing interlude as they had seen me slip out of the post and understood that I had no idea of what hazards lay ahead, so instead of going homeward (they pointed to the tents which were in line with the oasis) they had decided to be my voluntary escort

“How did you see me?” I exclaimed. “I slipped out of a side door and no one but our old bearer knows”. “Madam, we can see everywhere, especially across the sandy-dunes”. Both spoke at once. I asked Robin If I could photograph them, for standing thus against the dunes reef and spring water the evening glow had imparted an ethereal halo to them. Assuming I looked the same I focused the camera when Robin suggested I join the group, wanting to return the compliment.  I set the Agfa on ‘time’ control for its automatic to click and joined them. The next snap was of them alone. The spool had clicked to No.6.

I scooped more water from the spring and remarked on its clarity. David offered to fill his bottle for me to take back, since the location of the spring had to be kept secret. In retrospect I cannot recall much of what we talked about. I panicked when I was unable to retrace my steps. David and Robin had anticipated just such an emergency and offered to escort me for they felt uneasy to let me go back alone. First, however, the spring had to be covered after fitting the stone-slab on the water hole, sand and camel-weed strewed over. I had no qualms putting them to extra trouble for their tents were pitched close to the fort. The walk back was short and they kept up the chatter. I noticed their heavy matchlock rifles with several cumbersome items which I thought the army had done with long ago. The British servicemen were known for their adherence to discipline and tradition. I thought of our levies with their sleek and much lighter equipment. Both men also wore large ugly watches with Roman dials.

These points would occur to me from time to time when I looked at them to reply or smile at something they had said. Robin was the jollier of the two. David was happy looking but not half as talkative. The sun’s orb had nearly sunk and the full moon was rising in pale glory from the eastern horizon. The magic of this phenomenon, of the sunsets and moonrises simultaneously was a part of the magic that have enchanted travellers eternally in this land. One wonders where the sun will set if at all and the moon rises from the sands itself. The horizon is unlimited.

Meantime the Col. had awakened from his slumber and there was mayhem. Why had the old bearer let the troublesome mem-sahib go alone? Why had the guards allowed this laxity in discipline of allowing anyone to leave the post after retreat? I was not found anywhere. In the cross-fire Gideon was cuffed soundly by the old bearer as to why his college education did not train him to be a prime snooper. He should have as a matter of course followed mem-sahib from a discreet distance.

The hapless camp-clerk was by now used to such tirades and denied all knowledge of my descent downstairs. A search party was dispatched towards the oasis, another one accompanied by an irate Col. and the Chitrali made for the dunes. Gideon was ordered to keep the children company.

I saw them advancing from a distance and hoping there would be no relieved explosions called out as loud as I could that our guests for the evening were still in harness and not to worry about dinner being late. Assuming an ease of manner which I was far from feeling I spoke to the young men thanking them for accompanying me. Robin and David just smiled and bowed in exaggerated courtesy and said, “Madam, it has been a privilege and pleasure to meet you”. David added shyly not to forget the spring in an emergency.

He had added my initials to their own with what he called his bill-hook. Their forms faded towards the tents. The words maybe, but the tone was certainly not pompous, in fact the manner of their departure was reluctant but courteous. I guessed they had bowed out to escape needling for breaking rules. The search party was all around me now and a mixture of Persian and English conveyed how very foolish my performance had been besides being disastrous for discipline. I could easily have been got by a sniper or worse still kidnapped. Already the administration was blamed for taking a partial stance in a water and grazing land dispute between two clans.

I expected the Col. to ask me where and how I had met my escorts; he did not bother; even the Chitrali bearer failed to enquire about the Sahibs. Very unlike him, for this old hand at domestic service could not get over the trauma of the white-Sahib relinquishing the reins of power. His favourite guests were our English visitors and friends. We were his first native assignment and he barely tolerated us, that also because he loved the girls. I could never calculate his correct age as he went as far back as the Afghan war, always by the side of some heroic white man for in his youth he was also a soldier from his mountain fastness.

Coming back to the desert, my spirits were considerably dampened. The grapevine would filter this shocking news to H.Q. and an uncalled for situation with the locals would arise. However, all was well. I did have an escort, strictly not from the post but more interesting. We walked back where another harassed party arrived to say there was no sign of the memsahib. I fled upstairs.  The girls refused to sleep unless Gideon related his life story which assumed many facets. The elder child prompted tonight’s title and so Gideon sat down to relate what he would do if he was a camel, but the younger child at once wanted him to assume the posture of a camel, first giving them a ride round the room and then relating his story. Kids can be cruel but the shifty Gideon aroused that kind of wrath and under the aegis of the Chitrali bearer new ways and means evolved to discredit him. The Chitrali indulged the kids shamelessly and now cuffed Gideon anew, saying, “Oh, thou illegitimate son of a fox, do just as the baba log say. You can’t write a letter to reach my country, at least keep the children happy. First change this dress by which you ape the Ferangi (foreign) Sahibs. You round shouldered rat!  Wear your native dress at once, Namakharam! (unfaithful to the salt).”

All this in the vernacular sounded so comical. I could barely keep a straight face. To do the factotum justice he fiercely hated the camp outfit and never willingly donned it. Coat and long trousers were his ultimate dream in life accompanied by a tie and felt hat, the acme of high style. As far as the lack of dak (post) the old bearer never for a moment doubted that letters written by Gideon would ever reach his village and since incoming mail was handled by this freshly recruited clerk, Sajjad Khan was more than convinced his mail was pilfered. As to why he would do this, no amount of rationalising on Gideon’s part could exonerate his murky role in the cosmos, and the fact that no one wrote from the village was also attributed to Gideon’s sneaky malevolence. These two were very much part and parcel of our life on the frontier borderland and hence pop up so frequently as I never tired of analysing their minds.

I changed for dinner looking forward to seeing my two escorts. Reaching the mess suite I hastily withdrew hearing voices exchanging greetings in the vernacular, probably the local tribesmen had come earlier than expected with preliminaries of the feud packed up with a case of Black Dog or a pair of Italian blankets, for we still observed the procedures of political titivating in set pattern. After the usual clichés conveying mutual admiration, the law was firmly laid and accepted, coming as it did from the Lat-Sahib (Viceroy).

The principle seemed to be give a little take a lot; as with the spirits, even in those far flung areas, the faithful managed to level their relationship with the Almighty. Occasionally a blind eye was turned to excesses like smuggling within limits. The population was pathetically deprived with no visible means of livelihood.

The bearer came in balancing a tray of glasses with lime squash in them to find out if I was ever coming, for two local chiefs were due at ten p.m. I followed him to the lounge again puzzled. The Col. half rose and introduced Mr. Aziz Khan and Mr. Naseer Ahmed, the surveyors who were doing a fantastic job on the watercourse. The Col. looked bored and the two men nervous.  I gazed at their seedy looking exteriors, one wearing glasses and scowling, the other one in shirt-sleeves twiddling his ears. They got up only because the Col had and as quickly slouched back. Robin and David seemed to be late. We were then joined by the post-commander who appeared quite cheerful in spite of my escapade.

Dinner was announced. Whatever had happened to the two survey officers? They were supposed to be on deputation from the army and had accepted the invitation to dinner with alacrity I was told. The grubby and bored looking men appeared to be here under duress. Perhaps the survey team had taken serious offence at the lack of hospitality and prohibition from using the outpost facilities. At dinner the innuendoes were mostly on how shabbily they had been treated, the post commander ignoring the provocation. They ate with relish and along with me drank several glasses of lime squash. The Col. unflinchingly downed his whiskey and braced himself for sparring with the visiting chief which was bound to generate some heat, for the next day an amiable front had to be put up before the gathering Durbar. Both the young surveyors were visibly fed up now, as the Col. was in a truculent mood and told them firmly that unless the entire water-report was submitted they would not be allowed to move camp. Messrs. Aziz and Naseer left soon after dinner. Who was more relieved? Hosts or guests, it is anyone’s guess. Secretly I lauded the post-commander’s judgment about his stand with the survey team.

Soon the chief and his henchmen were announced, a signal for me to retire. A peep through the draperies showed a tall, heavily built African Arab bowing and greeting in exaggerated welcome phrases in his peculiar patois with its profusion of Persian words. Green tea was sent in and discussions started before a formal decision came into force at the public durbar next morning.

A weariness of body and mind made me forget to enquire about the two Englishmen.  I looked into the girls’ room and lowered their lamp-wick. Both slept soundly looking like  angels in a Raphael painting. I had put David’s water bottle and camera on a corner table and covered them with the velvet counterpane. Sleep did not come readily. I rummaged in the ante­room but could only find an old Arm Navy stores catalogue.

The morning dawned clear and cool auguring another scorching day. The girls dressed and breakfasted were clamouring for a camel ride. I decided to take them to the oasis for a picnic and also enquire about the shrine, thereby  avoiding the melee and listening to the gory feud settled in the upstairs suite. Along with Gideon and the bearer Sajjad Khan I descended the staircase once more. The girls looked like dolls, black and gold curls gleaming, their bonnets flying. A specially decorated dromedary was brought for them to ride on, bells and buntings looped across its funny form. The kids mounted gleefully clapping their small fat hands. I remembered Celia. Yes, I must find out where the shrine is for no woman should be deprived of cuddling her babies. Another camel loped forward. Would the mem-sahib be seated? It was hot and the Nakhlistan (oasis) not as close as it appeared. I stoutly refused remembering yesterday’s uncomfortable ride. Rahim Dad, an old retired levee whose sons were in the militia elected to escort us. I was rested after the night and started to walk, the bearer walking before us. The Land-Rover was still undergoing repairs.

It took an hour of brisk walking to reach the oasis. The flat desert terrain was so deceptive. The tents were further outward so with them as apex the outpost and oasis formed a triangle. No wonder Robin and David could not make it on time.  I had thought of asking them for lunch, but now they must be on their way to the durbar already. We could see throngs of people sprouting out of the sands it seemed, for there were no visible habitations around.

The oasis was even lovelier then I thought and every bit as lush and green as it appeared from afar. There were few grass and reed wigwams for the people who lived there; the date palms were laden with fruit. The enclosure was thickly strewn with lime trees, rose bushes, grapevine and jasmine creepers, besides a number of fruit trees. Water, crystal clear was gushing from a spot at the head of what appeared to be a large rectangular platform; this too was covered thickly with rambler roses and grapevine. The water spouted into a shallow basin lined with shining stones. The overflow watered the rest of the garden and went underground.

At another end of the oasis a pathway led cross-country to the outpost. Clear reed mats had been spread out and it was cool from the sun’s glare. We drank from the spring, it tasted like yesterday’s spring water near the reed and I remembered that David had mentioned it leading to a reservoir and was glad it escaped the pollution of washed feet!!

The cook had packed a basket of snacks which was being surreptiously delved into by Gideon; at least that is what the bearer maintained loudly. We were surrounded by females as our arrival caused much excitement.  Rahim Dad, the old Scout sat at a respectful distance scanning the horizon. Since I could speak Persian it was easy to understand their pidgeon dialect and then it came to me. How foolish, I should have asked Rahim Dad about the shrine; what better authority could be mustered?

Observing protocol, the information asked for was via the Chitrali who was informed very calmly that this was the shrine – the very place!  I cheered up as now the task of collecting sacraments would be accomplished easily. In fact our picnic had been taken as homage to the shrine and the post commander had preceded my visit with the gift of one sheep. Strange, that no one should mention it to me.

I stood up and asked to be led to the actual grave and was amazed to see Rahim Dad pointing to the platform, “In fact the mem-sahib is already standing there.” To think I had not investigated the locale yesterday. Another Methusalah appeared from the shrubs and was introduced as the patriach whose job was to look after the shrine. The honour was hereditary and would pass on to the old man’s progeny. He welcomed me with good wishes and fulfillment of vows. On explaining that I wanted some sacraments for friends, he graciously told me I was free to take whatever I wanted. Within minutes a palm reed basket was made by the women, decorated with flowers and filled with dates, lime and guavas.

I watched fascinated and felt the atmosphere of peace that pervaded the whole place. A woman quipped in to say that since a Mohammaden memsahib was coming they  had expected a silk coverlet for the shrine.  Here I agreed with the bearer that Gideon’s lethargy and lack of enthusiasm would never take him far; he should have automatically ferreted out details as I had mentioned the shrine several times. All he thought was how to acquire a new watch or suit lengths.

The matter of a silk coverlet would soon be remedied and I dispatched a sulky Gideon on the extra camel post haste with written instructions. He would get the article from the storekeeper who was in charge of all the confiscated contraband.  Gideon on his own steam was good enough but mounted on a swiftly loping camel, was the funniest spectacle. During this exercise who looked worse could not be decided, both had merged into one hilariously grotesque being, and speeded by the old Chitrali’s curses, the twain moved on.

I was curious about the holy occupant of the grave, where and how had he laid his saintly life? And under what circum­stances his mortal remains consigned to this desolate plain? The old patriarch could only tell me what I already knew. I asked the bearer to let the women and children go about their chores and the old man resumed his smoking. I declared that I would like to rest a little; within minutes I was left alone presumably to meditate. The kids were happily splashing in the spring water. I moved forward duly repeating the Arabic prayer for the dead, and tried to explore the thick foliage on the head side of the grave.

The Chitrali ever ready to oblige said this was the best thing I could do as touching the actual head stone conferred further blessing. I could see a gleam of white and was certain I could get a clue to the identity of the shrines inmate. Arabic scripture would surely be etched onto the top and sides of the grave.

I was very excited and the Chitrali no less. He fetched a pail of water and while I poured it on the head-stone, he and the caretaker’s grandson eased the foliage partly from the grave; the tightly coiled creepers had formed a canopy, camaflouging the whole platform.  After the white headstone was washed down the two men pulled and heaved and goaded by me doubled their efforts. Soon the vine snapped and the creeper fell on both sides like a curtain, and the white marble heads stones bared to daylight. In fact they were twin graves and both head-stones were etched with words.

The caretaker had no knowledge of what actually lay under the green mantle; both graves had etched headstones, bleached with time, only the hollow shape of the script could be deciphered, and that too on keen scrutiny. Moving closer I rested my arms on the raised structure and carefully connected the words. Faint traces of black paint still remained, but otherwise no one, on a first casual glance, could make out the inscription.

I looked long and closely, shut my eyes and looked again as I understood the text. The next moment, my mind was in a maze, the oasis seemed silent, all inmates on their different errands. The Chitrali thought I could not read the tombstones but I did too well; again I did not for I sat hypnotized before the shrine. The inscription on the headstone was:

1)Capt. Robin C. Hayes RE | Born 14th August 1885 Died 10th June 1911

2) Lt. David R. Sumpton | Born 17th Sept. 1888 Died 10th June, 1911

I gazed and gazed, committing the dates to memory. I never felt any proverbial cold shivers or a chill down my spine, instead a profound sadness of spirit came over me. I felt I had stepped into another period of time and had met with kindred souls. So Robin and David lived here? The lonely wastes must be un­bearable when the cold Siberian winds swept down, as much as the scorching desert in summertime or perhaps in the unknown country of age Robin and David did not feel the torments of the elements.

Slowly I got up and asked the old Chitrali to help cover up tombstones as before with the crumpled green foliage. The young saints should not be exposed to anymore prying, interfering visitors. After securely fixing the creepers I sprinkled more water and placed two blooms of white roses on each grave, then lay back on the rush mat, eyes closed. I remembered the water bottle but then I had taken so much for granted that had I enquired more about who lived in the tents and had I been more curious with Robin and David, all doubts would have vanished. A babble indicated Gideon’s return with a silk coverlet, the tra­ditional offering for a shrine. I presented it direct, to the caretaker’s family along with sugar, tea and dry rations. Robin and David had no use for such ordinary presents; their spirits soared above the mundane.

It was time to leave, the girls were seated on their dromedary and the old Chitrali was glad to accompany them. I was loathe to leave and lingered on. I wanted to be alone and mull over the evening before, dispatching Gideon on foot this time. I stayed back with Rahim Dad. There were two other scouts, invisible until I chose to depart. Turning to Rahim Dad I asked him, “Sahib, do you know who is buried in this Nakhlistan?” “Yes huzoor,” he replied. “They are the two Ferangi Sahibs who came out long before the first great Laam (war).” Realizing that I had evinced an emotional interest in the shrine, he volunteered to relate the event, if memsahib had the time of course.  I did and the old Scout recounted thus:

“In the beginning of the century just after the great Malka (Queen Victoria) died, Mekran Militia came into existence. At the time all this land was not controlled by the Raj. The two young sahibs had come out with a platoon of Kalat militia and were surveying the land. The whole territory was under the Khanate of Kalat. The two Sahibs rode astride camels all day with their equipment, and often shot deer which would be distributed to all the far flung homesteads; the longest haunch of venison being sent to the local tribe’s chief.

They had a small box which made music when a black plate was placed on it and a phone-like knob fitted with a needle touched the spinning disc. This music-box mem-sahib, was a strong lure for the girls in this land. One particularly beautiful girl named Zarin whose father owned many camels and date-palms, took a fancy to the music box and accompanied by another vivacious friend of hers, would regularly creep over to the tents at nightfall, bringing presents of dates and cheese for the sahibs. They would not tire of the music box which the sahibs generously played for them, and much to their amusement the girls would explore the Sahib’s Kit. Being lonely themselves the Sahib enjoyed these nocturnal visits but firmly fended off any overtures by the bright young girls who so longed for contact with the big world beyond the sandy horizon. They would be chaperoned by an old crone known in the vernacular as ‘Balluck’.

This title was used for all old women who were allowed much freedom of movements and negotiated alliances for the various families. She also acted as a cover-up in such clandestine esca­pades and was foster mother to the romantic girl Zarin. The goings on somehow leaked out and rather than acknowledge his daughter’s indiscretions the humiliated father sought revenge on the Sahibs. He sat in wait one evening with a loaded musket in the dip of the sand dunes, unaware that his wayward daughter was crouched in the Sahib-log’s tent with her companion, playing the music-machine (gramaphone) while the wily Balluck kept guard.

As the two officers were dismounting their camels on their return from the day’s toil, loud shots rent the air. Both men fell dying instantly. The sands thirstily absorbed their fresh strong blood. A terrified girl fled the tent and was gunned down. Her companion sensibly stayed hidden. A great uproar followed; the platoon accompanying the officers captured the chief. The dead men were buried where they fell according to Mohammaden rites. The native officer in the platoon drove a long and short stake over both graves to mark where the Captain and Lieutenant lay.

When news of the killing reached Quetta the Sarkar awarded extreme punishment and sent another contingent of ferangis and Baluchis along with a chaplain. After belated graveside service the two graves were plastered and white marble headstones put up. An acre of land was marked off and several saplings of date palms were put around to mark the boundaries. The tribes smiled cynically for not even scrub took root in the dry white sands.”

The old scout’s voice never wavered and I listened absorbing even his own comments about the atrocity. “Time passed memsahib and the gory incident was relegated to history. The girl Zarin did not succumb to the paternal gunfire but was not seen or heard of again. The aged Balluck  vindicated her honoru telling the tribal elders that they had perpetrated a grave crime and martyred the Sahibs wrongly. Time would prove the two gallants were innocent. The legend goes that when the inmates had been consigned to their sandy graves, the desert wilderness flowered into an incredible garden. A fresh-water spring spouted mysteriously and the date-palms flourished to the amazement of the local nomads.

 

As time passed everything flourished, fruit, flowers from whatever contrary climate they belonged to. Great store was set by the saints inter­ceding to God on almost any problem, the foremost being barrenness among women. Sacrements from the shrine were much in demand not only for childlessness but if the cycle of fertility was interrupted for some reason, immediate vows would be extended to the saints, which never failed if statistics are anything to go by.”

I could well believe the episode for the shrine had been bestowed a mystique which confounded rationality; its very existence and location was a miracle. The vows undertaken for more children were also genuine, for in that not too distant era, the phrase “population explosion” had not been coined, in fact on the border-wilderness a man’s wealth were his children and cattle. The more they multiplied the better prospects for future prosperity. In a sparsely populated land a shrine renowned for endowing fertility was greatly venerated.

The old scout talked, it seemed, in a reverie. “I was a boy and my father had instructed me to clean the graves after a sand-storm and then in my own lifetime I saw the graves lit up at night mysteriously; a spring of fresh-water spouted nearby and as time passed the Sahibs were forgotten, but the old woman’s dying words bore truth, that they had been needlessly slain, and as such their graves assumed spiritual powers. Travellers who lost their way, would be mysteriously guided. The acre of land marked off long ago was a fruit-orchard. Masses of flowers and creepers, grapevines and jasmine had grown profusely and completely covered the graves obscuring any signs of the tombstones or even the twin existence. As vows fulfilled people from afar would bring offering of livestock, saplings and roots and return with tins of fresh-water.

 

The girl Zarin had confided to her old Governess that the place where the ferangi sahibs had pitched their tents also contained a clear water spring but it has never been found or confirmed. It is fifty years now Memsahib, the legend has settled into our folklore and very few people know the origins of the shrine. It is known as ‘Saint of Sweet-Water Shrine’ or else the patron saints for bestowing fertility. They are also referred to as the ‘Martyrs of the Desert’. Any prayer or wish asked for with faith and depth of feeling is fulfilled . The miracle of the shrine is recounted all the way to the great Wilayet.” (England)”

The old man’s voice trailed off and I gazed at the shrine, overwhelmed once more with sadness and nostalgia. The desert had lost all charm. I stood up, wore my goggles, flipped open the umbrella and reluctantly made my way back to the post. The Durbar had dispersed.  Some prestigious stragglers were still in the courtyard. I went up a side entrance. Looking into the reed-basket I found Robin’s water-bottle intact.

Time enough to ponder I turned to matters at hand. There was no small commotion. Gideon was attentively appeasing the girls who wanted him to extract almonds from date-stones! He was furtively looking around and seemed to be relieved by my insulating presence.

Among other things the Col had discovered that one of his most trusted officers had left a trunk full of rifles to be sold at fancy prices to the already feuding locals. Gideon’s belongings revealed a two bolts of cream silk known as  ‘Boski’, and fake at that. Boski was a classic choice for the Gideons of this country, much coveted for its expensive look.  The Land Rover’s spare wheel was stuffed with contraband heroin. Gideon was zealously wearing his sun hat on his malformed head, which on being yanked off revealed a tea-cosy full of more opium. The dear old Chitrali was sporting a flashing Favre-Leuba on his wrist and I was able to warn him barely in time to conceal in his sleeve cuff. The whole situation was ludicrous.

Here we were the symbols of law and order, and our own seams splitting with everything contraband. The local headmen whispered aside that the Col. chastise his own men but turn a blind eye to the locals and post-levies. It was more politic to do so for the chiefs of the land were involved. The Col. had ordered his entire retinue to fall in for baggage inspection. The Land Rover was the prime culprit, carrying more contraband per square foot then the entire entourage. Some of the escort guards had changed into ‘muftis’ and wore suspiciously large turbans and appeared stout in appearance, a result of 20 to 40 yards bolts of smuggled cloth draped round their bodies. They were not to be envied for the extra penny made on the cloth, taken under such tortuous conditions, for the general poverty and lack of basic needs was lamentable in those regions. It was not an uncommon practice to smuggle the maximum amount in the flag caravan as it was exempt from custom scrutiny. I was quite sure that even our bedding rolls would contain items slipped in clandestinely. It was small wonder that this was thought to be a prize posting in the frontier service of His Majesty’s Government.

Tonight there would be a gala for the inmates of the post; singing, dancing, more roast deer and much goodwill generated mutually for the time being at least. We were leaving early next morning to another inspection, another stop. By late noon events were normalised vis-a-vis the secret shipping spree of our party and the shifty Gideon even managed to wangle a hideous suit-piece,

I desperately wanted to be alone and so once more I slipped out from the entrance unnoticed, and walked swiftly towards the sun. It seems a miracle now but I reached the exact spot of the night before. There it was the coral reef, the white sand dunes. I was breathless and waited to compose my tumultous thoughts, recall the faces of Capt.Robin and Lt. David undisturbed and make a complete re-run of my encounter with them.

Looking closely I found the damp spot but no amount of rummaging in the shale sand would move the smooth stone slab, clamped so heavily. Putting my ear to the stone I could hear water murmuring. My thoughts full of yesterday I trudged my weary way back. No one had missed me. I packed the bottle in my own travel bag. As I lay down exhausted, the enormity of what I had experienced struck me finally. I trembled, not with fear but compassion, for both young men must have been much loved babies, belonging to indulgent mothers in lands faraway; must have gone to school, joined the army and crossed the seas in service of King and Country, then cheerfully trudged these desolate lands and were immortalised by the very people who had slain them.

They could never have come here except on service, then why? Oh, why wasn’t this legend investigated before? The answer came – simplistic as it may sound – The Chief, guilty of the twin homicide, was so overcome with remorse that to still his guilt he donated generously to the shrine, even kept a caretaker who would be paid by the clan for the upkeep up to three generations. It was he who had lined the pool with white stones for a reservoir and regularly sent grain and livestock to the sanctified place. Where not even cactus grew, a veritable garden bloomed. The dates were renowned for their quality. The sanctity of the graves had merged into the cult of the surroundings. And so they lay, the two lads canonised as saints.

It would be futile telling anyone the whole episode as it would be attributed to a touch of the sun. Besides, the Col. was still fuming about discovering he was the prime carrier of smuggled goods.

Before we left the next morning I visited the Oasis once again, this time in the Land-Rover. It was peaceful and cool, dozens of little parakeets, pigeons and exotic birds hopped around. The children had been presented a baby deer which I presented in turn to Robin and David. The post-commander promised to keep an eye on it as it belonged to the saints. The post saddler had made a collar with bells attached on which I quietly etched with his tools ‘For Robin and David to keep you company on your strolls’. This long dedication was thought to be some private fad of the mem-sahib, as by now they mere quite convinced that the long desert ride had left me in the last stages of sanity.

I leaned over to make sure the creepers were in place and recalled prayers learnt long ago with the nuns. The thick vine and jasmine creepers would preserve the mantle of sainthood on Robin and David. I smiled remembering their smiling, handsome faces and the aura of cleanliness around their dust laden forms. Out of habit I raised my hands, recited the Arabic prayer for the dead, praying also that the sacraments so keenly asked for would bring peace and happiness to its recipients.

I would write to Nan the Governor’s wife – not about my expe­rience – but of the shrine, and send the water and dates to be given to Celia. On reaching H.Q. at Panjgoor, I made a parcel by the first Dak lorry to Kalat for onward dispatch to Quetta. However the Col. said he was summoned to Quetta urgently. It could not have timed better. I found a letter in the mail from Nan, a short sad one, saying good-bye, for the Raj had passed into history and its characters fading from the scene. Two days later we reached Quetta and were able to say farewell to many true and dear friends who had rubbed shoulders with us in anger and laughter through the years. The Commissioner and Celia were leaving for Kenya for a posting in the ’African Empire. I was barely able to reach them the sacraments from the shrine. With good humour they drank the water and popped some dates to eat.

The week in Quetta was a whirl of parties, Farewells and Bon Voyages to the accompaniment of such haunting songs as Tipperary, My Bonny Lies over the Ocean, Heart of my Heart and of course Auld Lang Syne. On a personal level the disintegration of His Majesty’s Indian Dominions caused much heartache as one wrote and wished good-bye to friends. The bloody holocaust of partition that Punjab went through never touched Baluchistan.

Decades later when the twin states had emerged the Colonel was on deputation doing a chair borne job in Karachi which was till then the capital as well as the international air-terminal, The girls had grown into beautiful young women.  Gideon had managed to become a bank officer on the steam of his long clerk­ship. The old Chitrali was more grizzled then ever but to Gideon’s disgust still considered him persona non grata. The old man was getting increasingly weary, longing for the cold, green countryside he came from. We parted with a heavy heart, little knowing this to be our last meeting. His mountain fastness had been opened by a jeepable road. He lost his life when the vehicle turned over on one of the curves which were never meant to take mechanised transport in the first place.

The incident of the ‘Shrine’ was added to my personal history of army days. Living in Karachi as civilians was still a trauma for me and I seldom missed the chance of getting away, however short the period maybe. On one such occasion I was assailed by a voice calling my name at the airport departure lounge. It was Celia, the Commissioner’s wife at Quetta,  only now they were on a United Nations posting. We hurriedly embraced, exchanging addresses and phone numbers. Her husband had not changed much and two boys stood impatiently watching. She took me aside and shyly said, “Do you know Tom was born exactly nine months after we left Quetta”. I was introduced to Thomas and John. “Marvellous”, I said, and gave her a bear hug as my flight had been announced. ” Will get in touch as soon as I get back!”  I hurried to the waiting plane.

As I settled myself, buckling the seat belt, the significance of Celia’s words dawned on me. The plane soared up; I shut my eyes and was back in the emerald oasis where amidst the thick greenery, the sweet water spring flowing, its counterpart gurgling in the hot sands with my initials etched on it. I remember one of the first things I did on reaching  Quetta was to have the spool of film developed, as the remaining three shots I had taken of the Oasis and the shrine itself. Sure enough the pictures were there and quite clear, except the three pictures taken near the reef. In the group I am visible clearly with two blurs of light on either side of the picture. In the one I had taken of Robin and David, only the desert landscape is seen with two blurs of light. The old Agfa did capture Robin and David in its lens, however ethereal their forms. I still have it with me as well as Robin’s aluminum water bottle.

I sometimes wonder if any other traveller also encountered Robin and David. I tried to rationalise their youthfulness   and by calculating that had they been still alive both would be in their nineties; does it matter in the end, one way or another for ten to fifty years would be lost in oblivion. It is people who matter.  The desert wilderness had imparted immortality to their young beings and a secret sorrow I had felt for their lost youth and deprivation of worldly life. I knew all was right with them and as the jet nosed westwards I remembered the ‘Ship of the Desert’ and shuddered, just slightly.

Even so to the end of life’s story I will remember the two young men, their smiling Edwardian courtesy and the forlorn look about them.