hybrid with its tall two- and three-storey public buildings, stores and hotels in the Indo-Gothic and Anglo-Mughal styles so beloved of the post-Mutiny period.
George had read of this, but nothing could have prepared him for the towering grandeur of the Metropole: set in its own lush gardens, three storeys high and as wide as a country mansion, it was distinctively Indian, with its Mughal arches, minarets and cupolas. Having paid off the palanquin, he gazed up in awe at the scale and splendour of the place. 'Welcome to the Metropole, huzoor ,' said a voice to his left.
He swung round to see the smiling, bearded face of a turbaned doorman, six feet six if he was an inch, his smart white tunic, or kurta , and pyjama trousers held in place with a broad red sash. 'Thank you,' said George, as he entered the hotel's large vaulted lobby, his boots ringing on the polished marble floor.
George spent the next few days getting used to the heat and humidity, buying supplies and planning his route north. The quickest option was rail, a branch line between Karachi and Multan, eight hundred miles distant, having opened the year before. But George knew that if his mission was to have any chance of success he needed to learn Pashto, the language spoken in most of southern and central Afghanistan, which would take time. He decided to journey by train as far as Kotri, ten hours away, then continue up the Indus river by steamer, a more comfortable and leisurely means of travel.
He still required a tutor, and it dawned on him that if he could find a guide-cum-bodyguard who could also teach him the language he could kill three birds with the same stone. His initial enquiries drew a blank, until he overheard a comment by one porter to a colleague on his first day in the job: 'Work hard and you should do well. The food is good and the tips are the best in Karachi. But don't forget to give ten per cent of your pay, tips included, to Ilderim Khan,' he said, pointing to the giant doorkeeper.
'And if I don't?' asked the newcomer.
'You may not live to regret it. Ilderim's a Pathan from beyond the Khyber.'
He'd be ideal, thought George, who knew that the Khyber Pass led directly to Kabul, and that its tribesmen were among the fiercest in Afghanistan. It did not occur to him to ask why a member of such a proud race was employed as a humble doorkeeper, but Ilderim provided the answer anyway. 'Yes, huzoor ,' he replied, to George's simple enquiry, 'I was born in the Khyber but I left twenty years ago to join the Corps of Guides.'
George had been at Sandhurst with a young subaltern destined for the Guides, and knew of the regiment's reputation as the finest in the sub-continent. Any young Indian soldier from the North West Frontier of the Punjab would have given his eye teeth to serve with it, hence the presence in the regiment of Pathans, Punjabi Muslims and Sikhs. But an Afghan recruit, George knew, would have been regarded by his people as a traitor. 'Why the Guides? Why not an Afghan regiment?'
Ilderim's brow darkened. 'If you'd seen the Afghan Army, huzoor , you wouldn't ask such a question. Its soldiers are a rabble, low-born, half trained and undisciplined. The Guides are different. I first heard of them from a cousin who was born near Peshawar and joined the corps in forty-six when it was raised to protect the frontier. On the few times I met him at family gatherings, he'd fill my young head with tales of the Guides' exploits during the Mutiny, particularly the legendary march from the Punjab to Delhi when the infantry covered almost six hundred miles in just twenty-two days. I could hardly wait until I was eighteen and old enough to enlist.'
'And did you ever regret your decision?'
'No, huzoor . Those thirteen years in the corps were the best of my life. I didn't want to leave. I was forced to after injuring my shoulder in a bad fall. It was my troop commander who found me this job.'
'Do you like working here?'
Ilderim frowned. 'It pays
George had read of this, but nothing could have prepared him for the towering grandeur of the Metropole: set in its own lush gardens, three storeys high and as wide as a country mansion, it was distinctively Indian, with its Mughal arches, minarets and cupolas. Having paid off the palanquin, he gazed up in awe at the scale and splendour of the place. 'Welcome to the Metropole, huzoor ,' said a voice to his left.
He swung round to see the smiling, bearded face of a turbaned doorman, six feet six if he was an inch, his smart white tunic, or kurta , and pyjama trousers held in place with a broad red sash. 'Thank you,' said George, as he entered the hotel's large vaulted lobby, his boots ringing on the polished marble floor.
George spent the next few days getting used to the heat and humidity, buying supplies and planning his route north. The quickest option was rail, a branch line between Karachi and Multan, eight hundred miles distant, having opened the year before. But George knew that if his mission was to have any chance of success he needed to learn Pashto, the language spoken in most of southern and central Afghanistan, which would take time. He decided to journey by train as far as Kotri, ten hours away, then continue up the Indus river by steamer, a more comfortable and leisurely means of travel.
He still required a tutor, and it dawned on him that if he could find a guide-cum-bodyguard who could also teach him the language he could kill three birds with the same stone. His initial enquiries drew a blank, until he overheard a comment by one porter to a colleague on his first day in the job: 'Work hard and you should do well. The food is good and the tips are the best in Karachi. But don't forget to give ten per cent of your pay, tips included, to Ilderim Khan,' he said, pointing to the giant doorkeeper.
'And if I don't?' asked the newcomer.
'You may not live to regret it. Ilderim's a Pathan from beyond the Khyber.'
He'd be ideal, thought George, who knew that the Khyber Pass led directly to Kabul, and that its tribesmen were among the fiercest in Afghanistan. It did not occur to him to ask why a member of such a proud race was employed as a humble doorkeeper, but Ilderim provided the answer anyway. 'Yes, huzoor ,' he replied, to George's simple enquiry, 'I was born in the Khyber but I left twenty years ago to join the Corps of Guides.'
George had been at Sandhurst with a young subaltern destined for the Guides, and knew of the regiment's reputation as the finest in the sub-continent. Any young Indian soldier from the North West Frontier of the Punjab would have given his eye teeth to serve with it, hence the presence in the regiment of Pathans, Punjabi Muslims and Sikhs. But an Afghan recruit, George knew, would have been regarded by his people as a traitor. 'Why the Guides? Why not an Afghan regiment?'
Ilderim's brow darkened. 'If you'd seen the Afghan Army, huzoor , you wouldn't ask such a question. Its soldiers are a rabble, low-born, half trained and undisciplined. The Guides are different. I first heard of them from a cousin who was born near Peshawar and joined the corps in forty-six when it was raised to protect the frontier. On the few times I met him at family gatherings, he'd fill my young head with tales of the Guides' exploits during the Mutiny, particularly the legendary march from the Punjab to Delhi when the infantry covered almost six hundred miles in just twenty-two days. I could hardly wait until I was eighteen and old enough to enlist.'
'And did you ever regret your decision?'
'No, huzoor . Those thirteen years in the corps were the best of my life. I didn't want to leave. I was forced to after injuring my shoulder in a bad fall. It was my troop commander who found me this job.'
'Do you like working here?'
Ilderim frowned. 'It pays
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