No Man's Land Read Online Free PDF Page A

shouted.
    And the sepoys echoed the call.
    â€˜Allah ho Akhbar !’ someone shouted, and was echoed back by the stalwarts of the Muhammadan companies.
    â€˜Wah Guruji ka Khalsa ! Wah Guruji ki Fateh!’ shouted a Sikh somewhere. And the other Sikhs took up the call while someone, more full throated than the rest, added in a shrill tenor: ‘Bole so Nihal, Sat Sri Akal !’
    And as a river in flood flows unchecked when once the dams of resistance have burst, so the calls of enthusiasm flowed across the tongues of the endless legion, emphasized by the stamping of determined feet, and punctuated with snatches of talk. And the long pageant, touched by the warmth of French greetings, inflamed by the exuberance of tropical hearts marched through this air, electric with the whipped-up frenzy, past churches, monuments, past rows of shuttered houses, chateaus and grassy fields, till, tired and strained with the intoxication of glory, it reached the racecourse of Parc Borely where tents had been fixed by an advance party for the troops to rest.
    After a march past of various mounted English and French generals, a sudden halt was called. The general of the Lahore Division trotted his horse up to the head of the forces, adjusted a megaphone to his mouth, and shouted in a Hindustani whose broken edges gained volume from the incomprehensibility of his tone and emphasis:
    â€˜Heroes of India. After the splendid reception which you have been given by the French, and the way in which you have responded with the calls of your religions, I have no doubt that you will fulfil your duties with the bravery for which you are famous!…’
    The band struck up ‘God Save the King’, and all ranks presented arms. After which the various regiments marched off towards the tents allotted to them.
    When they had dispersed and reached their billets, and began to take off their puttees and boots, they found that their feet, unused to walking since the voyage, were badly blistered.
    â€˜Wake up, lazybones, wake up, it is time for you to say prayers,’Uncle Kirpu was shouting as he crouched in bed puffing at the end of an Egyptian cigarette.
    â€˜They must be tired,’ said Daddy Dhanoo affectionately, as he wrapped the blanket round himself, shivering in the dawn, and invoking various names of God, ‘Om ! Hari Om ! Ishwar !’
    â€˜If we don’t wake early we shall not get the ticket to heaven,’ said Lalu as he stretched his body taut like a lion, yawned and rose, calling: ‘ Ohe , Subah.’
    â€˜Who? What?…’ Subah burst, startled out of a fitful sleep, stared at Lalu with bleary, bloodshot eyes, and then turned on his side.
    â€˜Has the bugle gone?’ Lalu asked, hurrying out of his bed as though he were frightened.
    â€˜No, I was saying that you will be late for your prayers,’ said Kirpu.
    â€˜Where does one say them?’ Lalu asked as he started to dress. ‘And does one say them seated on English commodes or crouching like black men who relieve themselves on the ground.’
    â€˜God’s name is good!’ Daddy Dhanoo said before Kirpu had answered. And he yawned, his big eyes closing, while the various names and appellations of the Almighty multiplied on his lips, his mouth opening like that of a tired Pekinese. This was his way of evading discussion on the topic because he had been the butt of all jokes since he had slipped off the polished edge of an English style commode on the ship.
    â€˜ Om ! Hari Om !’ Lalu parodied him. ‘May you be consigned to your own hell, and be eternally damned, Almighty Father of Fathers.’And he went out of the tent blaspheming.
    Every blade of grass between the tents on the racecourse shone in the light of the rising sun, while a sharp cool breeze blew from where the blue line of the sky lost itself in the mist around the dove-coloured chateaus on the hills.
    Lalu walked along, impelled by the