Remnant #1 – The Indian Mutiny

I recently did a deep dive into the burrows of my hard drive. I’m not sure whether I will write another novel at the moment, but whether I do or not there are several part completed ones that will not actually be completed because I ran out of steam…

One such was a set of preliminary drafts for a story set during the so-called Indian Mutiny of 1857. This piece is part of a chapter setting out the background to what happened. It hasn’t been vigorously checked, but I think the facts are all correct. It’s obviously incomplete, but I think it does stand alone.

And should I post a few more of these remnants occasionally?

9th May 1857, and a dreadful heat sits on the Northern Indian plain like breathless death. The air is full of dust and the land is parched, cracked and waterless, eight months or so since the last rains came, yet the suffocating debilitation of the temperature, well over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit for most of the day and a goodly portion of the night, is made more unbearable still by the effects of the high humidity. One felt that one could almost wring water out of the surrounding air, yet the only moisture visible was the sweat covering anyone foolish enough to attempt to move around in this climate.

In Meerut, less than forty miles northeast of Delhi, eighty-five sepoys have just been sentenced by Court Martial to ten years imprisonment. Muslim and Hindu, they are imprisoned for refusing to bite cartridges that have been smeared both with cow fat that was sacred to some and pig fat which defiled them all. In a move of breath-taking stupidity, the British have decided that this concoction is a suitable one for their native troops to have smeared onto cartridges that work by having the top bitten off, before pouring and ramming the contents down the barrel of the new Lee Enfield rifle. To be fair, after the mistake was realised, moves were made to ensure that the grease was made from different ingredients, but the damage by then was done. The belief was widespread that the grease was still composed of these taboo ingredients and, worse still, that it was a deliberate attempt by the British to contaminate and weaken their religions. The crassly insensitive handling of the issue did nothing to improve matters.

Nor is this an entirely new development. For maybe a quarter of a century things have been going rapidly downhill. There have been a number of ‘minor’ mutinies in the past, but these seem to be on the increase. For High Caste Hindus, ‘crossing the black water’ is prohibited, so attempts to force serving soldiers to sail abroad have been invariably interpreted as caste breaking and resulted both in mutinies and draconian punishments. Both this and the foolishness with the new cartridges have acquired added importance, though, due to the increased activity of Christian missionaries in India. It is possible that the British never fully realised quite how important religion was to the Indians. There never had been an Indian nation. India’s history was one of various states, Hindu and Moslem, shifting empires, conquests and absorptions. The idea of Indian nationhood had not yet arisen. Nor did there exist a universal shared culture. As well as the beliefs and traditions surrounding the different religions – Sikh, Parsi and tribal as well as the predominant two – the massive size of India had meant that most regions knew little about the others, even of their existence.

What mattered most to the average Indian, other than the struggle to survive, was his religion. It was what defined his life. And by 1857 it must have appeared to many that the British were determined to defile and break these religions, and then to impose their own. This was hardly helped by the general change in attitude exhibited by the British towards their subjects.

Much had altered over this time. In the late 1700’s, many of the British who came out to India acquired a huge respect, and frequently love, for the country and its people. Scholars such as James Princep and William Jones immersed themselves in the study of the languages and history of India, carrying out research and making huge discoveries. They treated the educated Indians in their circle as equals, treated others with respect and frequently married Indian wives. More than a few also converted to Islam. All this gradually changed in the 1800’s, however. A major factor in this was a steady increase in the number of women who came out to India from Britain. Debutants became aware of the existence of a pool of marriageable young men who were supposedly earning large sums of money and living in style with servants at their beck and call. They only lacked wives to make their lives complete. What could be more natural than to go to their assistance? Thus the ‘Fishing Fleet’ came into existence.

The impact that this had upon the British way of life in India was dramatic. As more of the British men married within their own, the growing community rapidly came to look down with disgust and contempt on those that cohabited with Indian women. And it was a short step from that to frowning upon those who changed their religion, wore native clothes, or even fraternised with the ‘natives’. Attitudes, too, were changing back in Britain. An increase of Christian evangelical zeal coincided with more information finding its way back from India about the country the British were ransacking, most shockingly that the majority were heathens who worshipped idols.

Within the army itself, the Indian troops noticed a change in their officer’s attitudes. Previously, British officers would happily mix with their men, socially as well as on duty and spoke their languages well. They were now more reluctant to learn these languages, found it irksome to talk for long to their men and no longer went hunting or to social events with them. This, the troops tended to put down to the influence of the church – the ‘Padre Sahibs’.  

The British have always referred to the uprising that exploded in 1857 as The Indian Mutiny. The Indians prefer to give it the title of the First War of Independence, yet there had already been a number of mutinies throughout the time that the British had been in India, even within the Bengal army. In 1765, on the eve of the Battle of Baksar, Company sepoys had rebelled and been executed. Then in 1806 an attempt was made to force sepoys in Tamil Nadu to wear a leather badge, anathema to Hindus, which had resulted in rebellion. And throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries there had regularly been mutinies when the British had forced sepoys to serve ‘abroad’, often prohibited by their caste, which was frequently viewed as a deliberate attempt to weaken said castes. And viewed as a prelude to attempting to convert them to Christianity.

There were, of course, many other factors contributing to this outbreak of violence. Over the previous twenty five years or so, the British had steadily been displaying a greater intolerance towards all facets of Indian society than they had done before. The respect that they had previously shown towards India’s long and rich history had all but disappeared, to be replaced by an attitude that they were governing ‘ignorant savages’ who were ripe for conversion to Christianity. And indeed, the company encouraged further Evangelical and Unitarian missionary activity; frequently this consisted simply of setting up schools and medical facilities for the poorer Indians, but this did nothing to allay Indian suspicions. In another insensitive gesture, English also replaced Persian as the official language of both government and education.

So, simmering just beneath the surface of all walks of Indian society was this fear, this suspicion, that the English were determined to break the native religions and to force Christianity upon India. And it only needed a spark like the Meerut incident to ignite a conflagration that would rapidly sweep across Northern India.

Move forward twenty-four hours and dreadful deeds have been done in the Indian heat. In the morning, the remainder of the Indian regiment at Meerut rose up to free their comrades, broke into the armoury, and then began to systematically slaughter the European community.

Even then, it was possible that the revolt might have petered out, if the sepoys had not decided to ride through the night to Delhi, to seek out the aged Mughal Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar, who ‘ruled’ as no more than a puppet of the English, and to declare themselves as his army of liberation. As they rode, they gathered supporters from the disaffected population and, around dawn, poured into Delhi.

It was the middle of Ramadan, so most of Delhi had been awake for some while, since for all Muslims it is forbidden to eat or drink during the daylight hours of Ramadan, and so across the city meals had been prepared, cooked and eaten before sunrise. At this time of year, too, because of the intense heat, much of the other activity of the city happened around dawn and dusk, whence it was a little cooler. And so, the streets were busy with worshippers making their way to and from mosques and temples, traders and shoppers busy at markets, beggars and hawkers, businessmen and palanquin bearers, soldiers and magistrates, all out and about in the labyrinth of streets and alleys that criss-crossed Delhi between the city gates.

Rumours of rebellion had been abroad for some months before, and so much of the native population of Delhi was in a state of keen anticipation. The rebels immediately found that they had sympathisers who rose in revolt as soon as they entered the city, especially many of the native soldiers stationed there. The British soldiers were mainly barracked outside the city walls and although a few Europeans quickly realised the severity of the situation, in the main events unfolded faster than could be dealt with and the city was largely overrun before the army could effectively intervene.

By nightfall the majority of the European population of Delhi – men, women and children – had either fled the city or been hacked to pieces. The only ones spared during the initial massacre were those few that had converted to Islam.

The next four months saw much bitter fighting across the north, as the rebels tried desperately to widen the rebellion and hold onto areas they had taken, while the British, with any hope of reinforcements many long weeks away, attempted, equally desperately, to break sieges and retake towns and garrisons that had fallen to the rebels. On both sides, tremendous cruelties and massacres were carried out, few more infamous than that at Cawnpore…

On Leaving Home

What would you take if it were us? she asked.

I shook my head.

.

She was silent for a moment, watching the television.

There were adverts: for cars, for perfumes,

For garden furniture and super-sized burgers.

It all seems so petty, she said.

I nodded.

.

What would you take?

.

A handful of photographs, I suppose.

Our papers and bank cards.

Don’t forget the last of that bread.

And put on your warmest coat, a hat,

Your gloves and your boots.

.

Can I take this?

.

No, leave that. We’ve no room.

Maybe we’ll be back sometime.

Maybe as soon as next Spring.

If there’s anything left to return to, that is.

If there’s anyone here who would welcome us back.

.

Where have you come from?

.

I no longer remember the answer to that.

Possibly Sumy or Sana,

On the other hand, Aleppo, or Aden.

It might have been Myanmar,

Conceivably Kyiv or Kandahar.

.

Why should we allow you in? who are you?

.

Who am I? I might be your son,

Your daughter, your wife or your father.

One day, I might even be you.

And on that day, pray for a compassionate welcome,

Pray for the kindness of strangers.

Refugees

I posted this poem a year or so ago, and I think it bears re-posting again now. In fact, I think I should post it repeatedly every year until everybody understands the situation most of these people find themselves in through no fault of their own.

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The first time she ever set eyes on the sea,

She was forty seven.

 

It was a long road there.

She set off with little enough,

And arrived with much less.

 

She had a home, once.

A house,

In a well-to-do area of the city.

Life was good.

 

But fear came,

In the form of bullets, shells and bombs.

Once, gas.

Then everyone lived in fear.

 

Her house is rubble, now.

Memories and possessions buried,

Alongside her husband.

 

Alongside her daughter.

 

Alongside her middle son.

 

Her hands are scarred from the digging.

For weeks,

Her palms were raw and bloody,

from blocks of masonry,

Too large to move.

 

Dust and tears.

 

It was bad enough to lose everything,

But when you’re caught in the cross-fire,

And the food runs out,

What else can you do?

 

Her eldest son paid for the crossing,

With borrowed money.

 

Somewhere,

He is ‘paying off’ the loan.

A bonded labourer.

A slave.

 

She fears for him.

 

Her youngest son was washed away.

The dinghy was too small,

The passengers too many.

Fear.

You could smell it,

Alongside the despair.

The panic.

There were fewer of them when the sun rose.

 

There is shelter here,

Of a sort.

But when the wind blows she shivers,

Drawing near to the oil drum blaze.

 

There is food,

Once a day.

Of a sort.

 

There was a welcome.

She soon learns what sort.

 

Now, she walks down to the sea.

 

She wonders whether she should,

Whether she should just,

Just, slip under,

The waves.

 

Refuge

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The first time she ever set eyes on the sea,

She was forty seven.

 

It was a long road there.

She set off with little enough,

And arrived with much less.

 

She had a home, once.

A house,

In a well-to-do area of the city.

Life was good.

 

But fear came,

In the form of bullets, shells and bombs.

Once, gas.

 

Her house is rubble, now.

Memories and possessions buried,

Alongside her husband.

 

Alongside her daughter.

 

Alongside her middle son.

 

Her hands are scarred from the digging.

For weeks,

Her palms were raw and bloody,

from blocks of masonry,

Too large to move.

 

Dust and tears.

The pain came later.

 

It was bad enough to lose her home,

But when you’re caught in the cross-fire,

And the food runs out,

What else can you do?

 

Her eldest son paid for the crossing,

With borrowed money.

 

Somewhere,

He is ‘paying off’ the loan.

A bonded labourer.

A slave.

 

Her youngest son was washed away.

The dinghy was too small,

The passengers too many.

Fear.

You could smell it,

Alongside the despair.

The panic.

There were fewer of them when the sun rose.

 

There is shelter here,

Of a sort.

But when the wind blows she shivers,

Drawing near the oil drum blaze.

 

There is food,

Once a day.

Of a sort.

 

There was a welcome.

She soon learns what sort.

 

Now, she walks down to the sea.

 

She wonders whether she should,

Whether she should just,

Just, slip under,

The waves.

Going Green

On the morning of the 26th August, 2019, every single person on earth woke up to find that their skin had turned green.

For a few hours, there were an awful lot of people trying to find a way to change it back again, to try to dye it, rub the colour off, swallow lots of strange potions, try magic spells, see doctors, priests, scientists, mystics, druids, and all sorts of other experts and so-called experts, all of whom claimed they could cure the problem.

But all of whom had green skin as well, so they didn’t come across as very convincing.

Finally, someone thought to bellow up to God ‘Oi, God! What on earth have you done?’

There was a rumble of ethereal chuckling, and then God replied: ‘I am just so totally pissed off, like, with your saying how some of you are better than the others, like, just because of the colour of the skin I gave you. It’s all pretty random, after all. So now you’re all the same, and you might as well just stop it.’

‘Yeah…but…green?’

‘Yes, green. If I make you all white, then the ones that were already white will make out that was because they were superior in the first place. Same with all the other skin colours. So…green. None of you were green before.’

‘But…’

‘Plus,’ and here God gave a little Godly snigger, ‘you all equate green skin with aliens. So now you’re all aliens. And, even if I say so myself, that’s a good one.’

002a

Nothing’s ever simple, though, is it? Within a couple of weeks, once everyone had realised there was no mileage in everyone claiming to be a Green Supremacist, all the major religions started working overtime to fire up extra feuds and wars and to persecute anyone within reach who thought differently to the ways they did, anyone they considered heretical, those who some thought might be a slightly different shade of green, or cut their sandwiches in a non-prescribed way.

And then the sound of the loudest ever irritated sigh filled the skies and echoed around every valley and mountain and city on earth. It rumbled across the plains and seas and everyone stopped what they were doing and muttered ‘Oh, crikey. Now what?’

And God roared out ‘I thought I was angry before, but now I’m really pissed off! What on earth makes you think you can speak for me? This is all, quite frankly, rather insulting! I made this lovely planet, and put you on it so you could enjoy it and look after it and be nice to each other! How dare you presume to say that I hate people who you disagree with? How dare you say you have authority to kill in my name? And, while you’re at it, you can stop all the servile bowing and scraping, too. I mean, what sort of an image do you have of me?

‘Oh, and I almost forgot (‘cos I’ve got a lot of gripes with you lot!). Men are not superior to women in any way whatsoever. So you men can stop paying them less, treating them differently, forcing them to hide themselves, denying them education, declaring them inferior or evil, or discriminating against them in any other way at all, or else I’m jolly well going to visit a few plagues on you that will really make your blood run cold!

‘Now, start to look after my bloody planet, treat women with respect, and stop trying to find more cowardly ways to exterminate anyone you think different to yourselves!’

Blimey. Better do as She says.