concerning "mess bills and sundry other debts that can no longer be covered by this account."
Beautifully handwritten protocol of a court-martial convened in Murree in September 1956, signed Warrant Officer J.R. Singh, Court Clerk. Statements of witnesses, statement of Prisoner's Friend, Judgment of this Court. The prisoner confesses his crime, no defense offered. Statement by Prisoner's Friend: _Major Mundy was drunk. He went berserk. He is sincerely sorry for his actions and throws himself on the mercy of the court.__
Not so fast. Sorry is not enough. What actions? Mercy for what?
_Summary of evidence, submitted in writing to the court but not read out.__ It is alleged by the prosecution and agreed by the accused that Major Mundy while refreshing himself in the officers' mess _took exception to certain words spoken in flippant jest by one Captain Gray, an honorable British technical officer on temporary attachment from Lahore. Seizing said respected captain by the collars of his uniform in a manner totally contrary to good order and military discipline, he three times head-butted him with great accuracy causing extensive facial bleeding, kneed him purposefully in the groin and, resisting the efforts of his perturbed comrades to restrain him, dragged the captain onto the veranda and administered such a horrendous rain of blows with his fists and feet as might have gravely endangered the captain's very life and being, let alone jeopardized his marital prospects and distinguished military career.__
Of the words spoken by the captain in flippant jest, there is so far no clue. Since the prisoner does not offer them in mitigation, the court sees no purpose in repeating them. _He was drunk. He is sincerely sorry for his actions.__ End of defense, end of career. End of everything. Except the mystery.
One fat buff folder with pockets, the word FILE inked in the Major's hand. Why? Would you write BOOK on a book? Yes, you probably would. Mundy spills the contents of the folder onto his frayed eiderdown. One sepia photograph, quarto size, on presentation cardboard mount with gilt surround. An Anglo-Indian family and its many servants cluster in a rigid group on the steps of a multiturreted colonial mansion set in the foothills of upper India amid formal lawns and shrubberies. Union Jacks fly from every pinnacle. At the center of the group stands an arrogant white man in stiff collars, next to him his arrogant unsmiling white wife in twinset and pleated skirt. Their two small white boys stand either side of them, wearing Eton suits. Either side of the boys stand white children and adults of varying ages. They can be aunts, uncles and cousins. On the step below them stand the uniformed servants of the household, color-coded for precedence, the whitest at the center, darkest at the edges. The printed caption reads: _The Stanhope Family at Home, Victory in Europe Day, 1945. GOD SAVE THE KING.__
Conscious that he is in the presence of the Maternal Spirit, Mundy takes the photograph to his bedside light, tipping it this way and that while he scans the ranks of the female members of the family for the tall polyglot Anglo-Irish aristocrat who will turn out to be his mother. He is looking particularly for marks of dignity and erudition. He sees fierce-eyed matrons. He sees dowager ladies long past childbearing age. He sees scowling adolescents with puppy fat and plaits. But he sees no potential mother. About to set the photograph aside he turns it over to discover a single scrawl of brown handwriting, not the Major's. It is the hand of a semiliterate girl--perhaps one of the scowling adolescents--blobbed and reckless in its excitement. _Here's me with me eyes shut, tippical!!__
No signature, but the exuberance is infectious. Returning to the photograph, Mundy examines the group for a pair of shut eyes, English or Indian. But too many are shut on account of the sun. He lays the photograph faceup on the eiderdown and rummages among the
Beautifully handwritten protocol of a court-martial convened in Murree in September 1956, signed Warrant Officer J.R. Singh, Court Clerk. Statements of witnesses, statement of Prisoner's Friend, Judgment of this Court. The prisoner confesses his crime, no defense offered. Statement by Prisoner's Friend: _Major Mundy was drunk. He went berserk. He is sincerely sorry for his actions and throws himself on the mercy of the court.__
Not so fast. Sorry is not enough. What actions? Mercy for what?
_Summary of evidence, submitted in writing to the court but not read out.__ It is alleged by the prosecution and agreed by the accused that Major Mundy while refreshing himself in the officers' mess _took exception to certain words spoken in flippant jest by one Captain Gray, an honorable British technical officer on temporary attachment from Lahore. Seizing said respected captain by the collars of his uniform in a manner totally contrary to good order and military discipline, he three times head-butted him with great accuracy causing extensive facial bleeding, kneed him purposefully in the groin and, resisting the efforts of his perturbed comrades to restrain him, dragged the captain onto the veranda and administered such a horrendous rain of blows with his fists and feet as might have gravely endangered the captain's very life and being, let alone jeopardized his marital prospects and distinguished military career.__
Of the words spoken by the captain in flippant jest, there is so far no clue. Since the prisoner does not offer them in mitigation, the court sees no purpose in repeating them. _He was drunk. He is sincerely sorry for his actions.__ End of defense, end of career. End of everything. Except the mystery.
One fat buff folder with pockets, the word FILE inked in the Major's hand. Why? Would you write BOOK on a book? Yes, you probably would. Mundy spills the contents of the folder onto his frayed eiderdown. One sepia photograph, quarto size, on presentation cardboard mount with gilt surround. An Anglo-Indian family and its many servants cluster in a rigid group on the steps of a multiturreted colonial mansion set in the foothills of upper India amid formal lawns and shrubberies. Union Jacks fly from every pinnacle. At the center of the group stands an arrogant white man in stiff collars, next to him his arrogant unsmiling white wife in twinset and pleated skirt. Their two small white boys stand either side of them, wearing Eton suits. Either side of the boys stand white children and adults of varying ages. They can be aunts, uncles and cousins. On the step below them stand the uniformed servants of the household, color-coded for precedence, the whitest at the center, darkest at the edges. The printed caption reads: _The Stanhope Family at Home, Victory in Europe Day, 1945. GOD SAVE THE KING.__
Conscious that he is in the presence of the Maternal Spirit, Mundy takes the photograph to his bedside light, tipping it this way and that while he scans the ranks of the female members of the family for the tall polyglot Anglo-Irish aristocrat who will turn out to be his mother. He is looking particularly for marks of dignity and erudition. He sees fierce-eyed matrons. He sees dowager ladies long past childbearing age. He sees scowling adolescents with puppy fat and plaits. But he sees no potential mother. About to set the photograph aside he turns it over to discover a single scrawl of brown handwriting, not the Major's. It is the hand of a semiliterate girl--perhaps one of the scowling adolescents--blobbed and reckless in its excitement. _Here's me with me eyes shut, tippical!!__
No signature, but the exuberance is infectious. Returning to the photograph, Mundy examines the group for a pair of shut eyes, English or Indian. But too many are shut on account of the sun. He lays the photograph faceup on the eiderdown and rummages among the
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