The Ravi Lancers by John Masters

Dessert. More champagne. Savoury, angels on horseback, Port, sherry, madeira.
    ‘Mr. Vice, the King-Emperor.’
    Scrape of chairs on stone tiles. Raising of glasses. Port sparkling red, bright against the lamps. The mess dafadar at salute behind the president’s chair. The servants in a row against the wall, all at attention.
    ‘Gentlemen, the King-Emperor.’
    God Save the King . Drink. Hesitate. But to throw the glass over your shoulder had been forbidden ten years ago as a waste of money.
    General Glover was still on his feet, his glass raised. ‘Mr. President, I offer a toast. To victory!’
    The president rose again. ‘Mr. Vice--victory!’
    ‘Gentlemen--victory! ‘
    This time the word, victory , rumbled along the table, and the general himself was the first to throw his glass over his shoulder. It smashed against the wall and the pieces fell tinkling to the floor. Twenty glasses followed with a sound of crystal bells.
    In the anteroom Warren found himself sitting next to the Commissioner, who was wearing white tie and tails, the collar of the Star of India around his neck.
    ‘I hear you’re going to the Ravi Lancers, Bateman,’ he puffed. He was fat and bald, with shrewd sharp dark eyes. ‘Have you ever served with Rajputs?’
    ‘No, sir ... But I thought Ravi was a Dogra state.’
    ‘Dogra is a purely geographical term. The people who live in that area are of various castes. The men you are going to serve with will call themselves Rajputs. Are you looking forward to it?’
    Warren said slowly, ‘Yes, sir. I think so. It’s not going to be easy. My CO wonders whether it’s really wise to send any Indian troops to France, and I suppose that would apply even more strongly to States Forces.’
    The Commissioner said, ‘I know what he means, but there’s a more subtle danger than that. A danger to the Indians. In exposing them to the power of alien gods, if you like. The gods of Europe do not speak Hindi. They have nothing in common with the gods of the Mahabharata. The right sacrifices and mantras may not work there. The men will feel isolated, out of their depth, alone. They will need comforting more than disciplining.’
    An interesting idea, Warren thought, and different from what his colonel believed. The Commissioner said, ‘If I may venture a word of advice, Bateman, I would go slowly, go cautiously. React rather than act. We civilians have to deal with the Indian more as he is, less than with what we can make him, than you do in the army. We have learned that methods which will work with Englishmen, won’t necessarily work with Indians. It’s what outsiders would call deviousness, but often it isn’t devious, it is just... Indian. They have their own ways of thought, you know.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Well, I thought it would do no harm to mention it ... So you are going to do battle under the walls of Troy, with Lord Kitchener as Achilles and the Kaiser as Hector. I wonder what would represent Helen in this modern Iliad? ’
    Warren said, ‘Belgium, I suppose? ... I have thought it’s more like the Mahabharata .’
    ‘Oh,’ the Commissioner said, surprised, ‘you know the Mahabharata? ’
    ‘Yes, sir. And the Ramayana ... The Iliad always seems to me to be about a war where it will not really make any difference who wins, because there’s no difference between the two sides. The Mahabharata gives me an impression that it is not only about a war between nations, but between ideals, between good and evil, almost. More like Paradise Lost .’
    ‘Yes,’ the Commissioner said thoughtfully, ‘and in that other war, all the fighters are on one side, all the thinkers, the questioners, on the other. So war itself is turned sideways and becomes both less tangible and more sensible. I am an old fogey and a man of peace, but I wonder, after this German war is settled, what will be left of what we were fighting for.’
    ‘It’ll be over by Christmas, a lot of people say,’ Warren said. ‘Our