No Man's Land Read Online Free Page A

khaki, blue-jacketed French seamen and porters, and English Tommies. And there was a babble of voices, shouts, curses, salaams, and incomprehensible courtesies. He struggled into the single file which was disembarking and, before he knew where he was, stood on solid earth in the thick of the crowd, without Kirpu. The sepoys were all looking at each other embarrassedly, or talking to the Francisis , gesticulating and wringing their hands and turning away when they could not make themselves understood. The French carried on in their own lingo, imparting information in a tumultuous flow of words which all seemed like ‘phon, phon, phon, something, something…’to the Indians.
    But they were kind and polite, these Francisis , bowing and smiling and moving their heads, their hands, and their bodies in broad gestures, unlike the reticent Tommies.
    Lalu stamped his feet to see if the impact of the earth of France was any different from the feel of Hindustan. Curiously enough, the paved hard surface of the quay, under the shadow of gigantic ships, full of cranes and masts and steel girders, seemed different somehow, new, unlike the crumbling dust of India. He swerved, and began to tap the pavement, to jump, and caper out of sheer exuberance of spirit…
    The quick darting notes of the bugles tore the air, and the sepoys ran helter-skelter with their heavy trappings, and began to get into formation.
    Lalu spotted Havildar Lachman Singh, rushing towards the wide gates which opened into a road from the high wall of the quay. He ran after the N. C. O. His company was already forming while he had been procrastinating to find out the exact orders. ‘Fall in, son,’ said Lachman Singh with a kind smile on that brave, keen face of the Dogra hillman which Lalu had always seen sweating, owing to the energy which the sergeant put into whatever he had in hand, whether it was plying a hockey stick, instructing at the gymnasium, taking out a fatigue party, or doing any other regimental duty.
    As Lalu was rushing into line, warmed by the kindness of Lachman Singh, Subah shouted ‘ Oi , Owl Singh!’ and came and dragged him to his platoon.
    â€˜Then, what is the talk – how do you like the land of France?’ Lalu asked, leaning over to Uncle Kirpu.
    â€˜This land,’ said Kirpu with an amused smile, ‘this land is like all the others, it came to be with the coming of life, and will go down with death.’
    â€˜How can the blind man know the splendour of the tulip!’ Lalu said.
    â€˜There is one splendour in men, another in tulips,’ Uncle Kirpu answered.
    Lalu was too enthusiastic about the adventure to feel as Kirpu felt, but he looked at the amused unconcern in the face of the experienced soldier who accepted fate with the resignation of a mild cynic, and who smiled at everything with a gentleness born of some hurt. Then he gazed at the lined, grave, Mongoloid face of Daddy Dhanoo, who had just outlived the accidents of time, space, life, and did not speak at all, as if he had become neutral, immortal. Their behaviour was so different from Subah’s blustering, and his own excited manner.
    But the band struck up a tune for the route march, and the orders of the officers rang out, and the heavy tread of ammunition boots, the flashing of arms, the rustling of uniforms, transformed the air.
    â€˜ Vivonlesindu ! Something, something…’ the cry rang out, above the ‘lef right lef’ of the N. C. O.s, from the crowd, which stood five deep under the awnings of tall, white-shuttered houses under the shadow of the harbour walls.
    Lalu felt a shiver pass down his spine, and he felt shy walking as a man among men through a crowd of cheering spectators. But the cheering continued.
    A Tommy cried back on behalf of the sepoys; ‘Three cheers for the French – Hip hip hurrah!’
    The sepoys repeated: ‘Hip hip hurrah!’ ‘Hip hip hurrah!’ Lalu scanned