mentioned in the Congress files. The Raj doubtless drew a distinction between ‘legitimate’ political opposition and organisations like the PG – or the Hoors of Sindh.
I ask for everything under ‘Terrorism’, starting in 1941, the year Bill graduated from the Police Training School, upto 1945, when he left Satara. Walawalkar looks uncertain. He says they may take time to locate, because they were moved to a different part of the building during the ‘reorganisation’ he mentioned yesterday. In the meantime, he wonders, would I like to look at anything else? Remembering Lindsay Padden-Row’s correspondence about the internment camp at Satara, I decide to examine ‘Foreigners’, the files for which arrive quickly. They seem primarily concerned with spies and fifth columnists. To my surprise, however, they yield useful material, with reports both made to and by Bill. I also sometimes catch a heartening glimpse of his personality through the official-speak.
Here’s one example; ironically, it concerns Bill being hauled before his own superior in Nasik. He’s been at a dinner attended by a Frenchwoman, identified only as Madame Agnes; she describes the occasion in a letter, pounced on by the censors. According to her account, at one point during the evening she complains to Bill that the bread tastes dreadful. He takes a bite, makes a face and advises her against eating any more. When asked why, he says it’s probably poisoned. While I can immediately visualise the puckish mock-solemn expression which so often accompanied his jokes, Madame Agnes takes him seriously: ‘He is the Asst Supt of Police, so he should know … funny thing, though, I’ve had tummy trouble for four days.’ The censors demand that both Bill and Mme Agnes be formally reprimanded by the DSP for spreading demoralising rumours, prejudicial to the war effort. According to his superior’s minutes, Bill insists it was, indeed, simply a joke – after all, he’d swallowed his mouthful in front of her. The DSP decides to give the Frenchwoman a mild warning and a brief introduction to the vagaries of English humour.
A second nugget which brings Bill vividly to life comes in another intercepted letter: ‘The turkeys travelled down very well with the exception of one hen bird which had a swollen and lame right leg … the ducks seemed in perfect condition except one which had a very husky throat and is also being treated.’ Again, I can easily visualise Bill’s struggle to keep a straight face as he comments: ‘Although I am no ornithologist, mention of a duck suffering from a husky throat sounds somewhat peculiar and indicates the use of some sort of code in the letter.’ He decides to investigate the writer, though the outcome isn’t recorded anywhere that I can see.
Bill on horseback
When I’ve finished flicking through ‘Foreigners’, I return to Walawalkar’s desk. ‘Very useful, thank you. Any news about the “Terrorism” holdings?’
He looks embarrassed. ‘Missing, only.’
It takes a moment to register. ‘Surely not the whole run?’
‘Already not here when I arrived in 2004.’
‘But Shinde must have seen them,’ I splutter, ‘you’ve got his list. Where have they been moved?’
‘I don’t know, sir. Sorry.’ He returns my list.
I’m thrown. Instinct tells me those files would be much the best place to look for Bill’s reports and for the British view of the Parallel Government and its methods. They must behere, in some dark corner of this cavernous building, tied up in musty mailbags to ‘protect’ them.
‘I will make more inquiries. But meanwhile, you can maybe find more of the material you want under other headings? What about “Special Crimes”? I can have them ready for you after lunch.’
When I return in the early afternoon, Walawalkar’s station is empty. However, a pile of files is waiting at my desk. While waiting for my friendly archivist to reappear, a man I haven’t seen before
I ask for everything under ‘Terrorism’, starting in 1941, the year Bill graduated from the Police Training School, upto 1945, when he left Satara. Walawalkar looks uncertain. He says they may take time to locate, because they were moved to a different part of the building during the ‘reorganisation’ he mentioned yesterday. In the meantime, he wonders, would I like to look at anything else? Remembering Lindsay Padden-Row’s correspondence about the internment camp at Satara, I decide to examine ‘Foreigners’, the files for which arrive quickly. They seem primarily concerned with spies and fifth columnists. To my surprise, however, they yield useful material, with reports both made to and by Bill. I also sometimes catch a heartening glimpse of his personality through the official-speak.
Here’s one example; ironically, it concerns Bill being hauled before his own superior in Nasik. He’s been at a dinner attended by a Frenchwoman, identified only as Madame Agnes; she describes the occasion in a letter, pounced on by the censors. According to her account, at one point during the evening she complains to Bill that the bread tastes dreadful. He takes a bite, makes a face and advises her against eating any more. When asked why, he says it’s probably poisoned. While I can immediately visualise the puckish mock-solemn expression which so often accompanied his jokes, Madame Agnes takes him seriously: ‘He is the Asst Supt of Police, so he should know … funny thing, though, I’ve had tummy trouble for four days.’ The censors demand that both Bill and Mme Agnes be formally reprimanded by the DSP for spreading demoralising rumours, prejudicial to the war effort. According to his superior’s minutes, Bill insists it was, indeed, simply a joke – after all, he’d swallowed his mouthful in front of her. The DSP decides to give the Frenchwoman a mild warning and a brief introduction to the vagaries of English humour.
A second nugget which brings Bill vividly to life comes in another intercepted letter: ‘The turkeys travelled down very well with the exception of one hen bird which had a swollen and lame right leg … the ducks seemed in perfect condition except one which had a very husky throat and is also being treated.’ Again, I can easily visualise Bill’s struggle to keep a straight face as he comments: ‘Although I am no ornithologist, mention of a duck suffering from a husky throat sounds somewhat peculiar and indicates the use of some sort of code in the letter.’ He decides to investigate the writer, though the outcome isn’t recorded anywhere that I can see.
Bill on horseback
When I’ve finished flicking through ‘Foreigners’, I return to Walawalkar’s desk. ‘Very useful, thank you. Any news about the “Terrorism” holdings?’
He looks embarrassed. ‘Missing, only.’
It takes a moment to register. ‘Surely not the whole run?’
‘Already not here when I arrived in 2004.’
‘But Shinde must have seen them,’ I splutter, ‘you’ve got his list. Where have they been moved?’
‘I don’t know, sir. Sorry.’ He returns my list.
I’m thrown. Instinct tells me those files would be much the best place to look for Bill’s reports and for the British view of the Parallel Government and its methods. They must behere, in some dark corner of this cavernous building, tied up in musty mailbags to ‘protect’ them.
‘I will make more inquiries. But meanwhile, you can maybe find more of the material you want under other headings? What about “Special Crimes”? I can have them ready for you after lunch.’
When I return in the early afternoon, Walawalkar’s station is empty. However, a pile of files is waiting at my desk. While waiting for my friendly archivist to reappear, a man I haven’t seen before
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