Battles Long Ago

Dhuki the old gardener, spent a lot of time on his haunches, digging with a little spade called khurpi. He’d dig up weeds, turn the soil in order to sow new seeds or transplant delicate young seedlings, or just fuss around the zinnias and rose bushes.

I liked to dig too, and made several attempts to help, but Dhuki just sent me away, saying I was spoiling his arrangements or damaging the stems of Granny’s prize sweet peas. I guess dedicated gardeners are like that—they hate interference!

So I decided I’d have a patch of my own to cultivate. I wasn’t sure what I’d grow in it, but I liked the idea of digging up the soil and planting something—anything!—in the good earth. And Granny said I could use a patch of wasteland near the old wall behind the bungalow.

‘Dig to your heart’s content,’ she said. ‘And while you’re about it, you can remove that patch of nettles!’

Dutifully I removed the stinging-nettles, getting a few blisters in the process. But what are a few stings to a small boy who is enjoying himself? Armed with pitch-fork and spade, I was soon digging up the stonysoil near our boundary wall.

‘You won’t get far with that little spade,’ said Grandfather, who had come over to watch my progress. ‘Here, try this shovel.’

Soon I was toiling away with the shovel, my shirt soaked in perspiration; for it was April, already hot weather in our small town in north India.

Uncle Ken strolled by and stopped to watch me at work. He was munching a chicken sandwich. Uncle Ken did not go in for physical activity of any kind, but he did believe in a constant supply of food and refreshment.

‘All that digging should give you a good appetite,’ he said approvingly. ‘Lunch is only an hour away!’ And he finished his sandwich and wandered off.

Next day, when I was digging again and beginning to wonder if it was all too much of a bother, my spade struck something hard and I found I’d dug up a small round iron ball, a little bigger than one of my marbles.

I went in search of Grandfather and found him on the veranda steps, feeding the sparrows.

‘What’s this?’ I asked, showing him the iron ball. ‘I found it while digging.’

‘It looks like an old musket-ball,’ he said, examing it closely. ‘Interesting that you should find it here.’

‘It must have been here a long time,’ I said.

‘A hundred years, at least. Probably during the battle for this town. Muskets were used at that time. Sit down while I tell you something about those times.’

Grandfather sat back in his favourite arm-chair and I sat on the veranda steps, and he said, ‘Once upon a time these hills were held by the Gurkhas, fighting men from Nepal. They were at war with the British who were in control of the territory across the river—all a part of India at a period when rival powers were fighting over a land that wasn’t theirs to begin with! Well, the Gurkhas held the steep hill that you see from our boundary wall. They’d build a stockade on the summit and it gave them a vantage point from which they could fire upon the advancing British force. The British lost many officers and men before they were able to occupy the Gurkha stronghold. I think our house is situated on the plain where the soldiers formed up with their scaling ladders.’

‘Did they use swords then?’ I asked.

‘They had swords, but they also had muskets and small cannons. They couldn’t bring heavy cannons up this incline. I’m sure you’ll find more musket-balls if you keep digging.’

I kept digging, of course. And I’d forgotten about having my own flower-bed. I’d become an archaeologist, digging up the past! Although I did not find another musket-ball, I did turn up a belt-buckle—‘it must have come off a soldier’s uniform,’ said Grandfather—and then, after three or four days of digging in different places, a small piece of metal with some lettering on it.

‘What’s this?’ I asked Grandfather. I’d had enough of hard labour by then, and was ready to turn to some other activity, such as making sandwiches in the manner of Uncle Ken!

‘Very interesting,’ said Grandfather. ‘It looks like a piece of silver. It’s been flattened out, but I think it might have been a card case. They were quite fashionable then. A young officer might have had one. Look, that’s a name engraved on one side. See if you can read it, Ruskin, I’m wearing the wrong glasses.’

‘A-n-s-e,’ I spelt out. ‘I think one or two letters are missing.’

‘Well, let’s clean it up and take good care of it,’ said Grandfather. ‘It’s a bit of history, after all.’

Encouraged by this, I began to excavate different parts of the garden and compound, much to Granny’s horror. She swooped down on me and forbade me from going anywhere near her flower-beds. Her sweet peas were in full bloom, tipped to win a prize at the local flower show. Granny allowed me to dig around the cucumber patch in the back garden, but I found no more treasures apart from a soap dish and a broken chamber-pot.

‘Very ancient, that pot,’ said Grandfather. ‘I remember breaking it when I was boy.’

He had been going through his collection of old books, and late one afternoon he called out to me from his arm-chair on the veranda.

‘Look here, Ruskin, I think I’ve found that name!’ He had been reading through an account of the Gurkha War, and had come across a list of British officers who had fallen in the battle nearby. He pointed at a name half way down the list: ‘Lieutenant Ansell. Killed in action, May 5, 1818, at the storming of Kalinga Fort.’

‘That must be our man,’ said Grandfather with certainity.

‘And we have his belt-buckle and card case,’ I added. ‘Do you think he could be buried in the garden? Under Granny’s sweet peas?’

‘Now don’t let your imagination run away with you,’ said Grandfather with a laugh. ‘Those who fell in the fighting would have been carried away behind the regimental lines. But I have an idea, Ruskin. Why don’t you start your own museum with the things you’ve found? You can use that little store-room on the roof.’

So Grandfather helped me clear out the storeroom, and I set up my exhibits on a couple of old trunks. But I didn’t have much to put on display—just the musket-ball, the belt-buckle and the card case. Granny had thrown away the chamber-pot.

‘Never mind,’ said Grandfather. ‘Keep digging. You’re sure to find something.’

‘It should keep him out of mischief,’ said Granny. ‘And thanks to all his digging, I now have somewhere to grow sunflowers!’

But after some time I missed my bicycle and my exploration of the town and its surroundings. All digging was left to Dhuki the gardener. He’d been digging for years, and when he stood up he looked like a question-mark.

‘Are you going to look like a question-mark too?’ teased Uncle Ken.

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I shall be an exclamation mark!’

And here I must confess that I did not grow up to be an archaeologist. Or a gardener. Or the curator of a museum. But I’ve always found history interesting, and it helps me when I have a story to write!