Dehra Dun

Gen "Timmy" K S Thimayya was in one of the earliest batches to arrive at the RIMC, and from there to go Sandhurst. This boy from the coffee country of Coorg rose to become the most illustrious chief of the Indian Army. His biography, Thimayya of India, is a moving tale of a sensitive person pitted against the British bias, his desire to build self-esteem among Indian officers and see them prosper. The following write-up is excerpted from his biography.

His father, who accompanied him, however, did not seem interested in the sights. He knew that in North India the relations between Indians and British were different, and he was worried for his son. At the Dehra Dun station they were met by the college president, Mr. Scott, a distinguished Oxonian, and his beautiful wife. They welcomed the Thimayyas and took them to their house for tea. At first Thimayya's father was suspicious and aloof, but the Scotts were so gracious that he soon thawed. Before long all four were chatting like old friends. Then the Scotts' eight-yearold daughter came in. She was an adorable child—in fact she became the favorite of the college—and she won the elder Thimayya's heart. She also dispelled his doubts about the suitability of the college. As he left, he admonished his son to give up mischievous ways and to work hard.

Mr. Scott turned young Thimayya over to Mr. Kittermaster, who was to be the boy's section master. Kittermaster also represented the best English public-school type. In addition, he was a superb athlete. He had just come to India; in fact, Thimayya was the first Indian boy he had met. On the way to the dormitory, he asked Thimayya questions that seemed curious because of their naivete. How many wives did Thimayya have? Did he believe that widows should throw themselves on their husbands' funeral pyres? Did he eat meat? By the time they reached the dormitory, Thimayya began to have doubts about Mr. Kittermaster.

Moreover, Kittermaster handled awkwardly the introducing of 32 cadets to one another. Admittedly the boys were a diversified group. All of them were ill at ease. Kittermaster strained to band them into a group. Thimayya sensed rising resentment toward the Englishman. Then, at the worst moment, Kittermaster committed a blunder that would either cement his relations with the boys—or would break them irrevocably.

In India the Western custom of using tissue paper in the bathroom is not followed; instead, water is used. To carry the water, everyone has his own lotha, a little brass pot with a spout. During the awkward moment with Mr. Kittermaster, one of the boys took his lotha and began to leave the room.

But Kittermaster stopped him. "Where are you going with that teapot?" he asked. "Why don't you share it? I could use a cup."

There was a stunned silence before the cadets burst into laughter. Kittermaster looked at them in astonishment. When he was told about the lotha, however, his face went tomato red. He made an effort to maintain his dignity, but he failed. He too began to laugh. By laughing at himself he won over the boys, and from then on they liked him.

They also liked the college itself. Dehra Dun lies at an altitude of 2,000 feet at the foot of the Himalayas. At night they could see the lights of Mussoorie, a hill resort a few miles to the north but a mile above them. The college was surrounded by green meadows and forests of bamboo and pine. The buildings were in the English country style: red tile roofs, black beams, and whitewashed walls. They were surrounded by lovely gardens and playing fields.

The British obviously were uneasy about giving officer training to Indians. Because of the massacre in Amritsar in 1919 and, a year later, the civil disobedience movement led by Mahatma Gandhi, the British had lost self-confidence in the strength of their position in India. Moreover, they could not forget the mutiny of Indian troops in 1857. They felt now that they could isolate the sepoy and prevent him from being infected with nationalism, but they were unsure of educated Indian officers. Thus only the persistent nationalists' pressure, plus the fact that World War I had nearly exhausted the supply of British officers, forced the British Raj to permit the training of Indian officers. At the time the British authorities believed that no Indian school could produce boys capable of the standards required at Sandhurst. The Military College at Dehra Dun, therefore, was established to bring a small number of Indians up to the necessary standards. The number of cadets at the college was to be increased to a hundred, but at first only 32 were enrolled.

The cadets were separated into three sections named after famous Indian Army generals—Rawlinson, Roberts, and Kitchener. Thimayya was in the Rawlinson Section. Herealizedthat the majority of the cadets came from families who were connected with the military and thus shared a similar background which was wholly unfamiliar to Thimayya. As a result, the friends he made at first were those who did not fit in with the majority.

There were six in his group. Two were Pathans, Amed Jan and Khalid Jan, sons of a distinguished father in the Northwest Frontier Province. They were not particularly bright, but honest and straightforward. The three boys felt sorry for two Burmese, Maung Chi and Ba Yin. They were intelligent, but although they smiled, they were really lonely; they accepted friendly overtures gratefully. Finally, Dolvoy Srikant Lakshmi Kantaraj, nephew of the then Maharaja of Mysore, attached himself to Thimayya's group. He too felt out of place; he had been raised so delicately that being thrown with a group of boys on an equal basis was a harsh experience.

The group might have remained unpopular outsiders except for an incident that occurred on the third day in the college. The families of many cadets had accompanied the boys and instead of departing had settled down to enjoy the college's hospitality. Funds, however, had been allocated for only the 32 cadets. Thimayya's group, unfortunately, had chosen the end of the dining table that became known as starvation corner.

Sitting at the table next to Thimayya was a Punjabi boy who came from a small village where he had learned little about courtesy. When the dishes were passed to him, he shoveled all the remaining food onto his plate. Then, without apology, he handed Thimayya the empty dish. His other table manners were equally unpleasant. After three days of watching him feed while they had had nothing to eat except sweets bought at the tuck shop with their pocket money, Thimayya and his five friends developed a dislike for their neighbor. Dinner on that day was a rich curry. Its fragrance tortured the hungry- boys as they watched the Punjabi plow into his full plate. Something in Thimayya snapped. He rose slowly from his chair. He heard a gasp from his friends, and one tried to pull him back, but he brushed the hand aside. He thinks that he intended to snatch the plate from under his neighbor's face and to dump its contents onto the boy's head. At that moment, however, he realized that the whole room had become suddenly silent. He glanced up to see the college commandant standing at the head of the table. Colonel J L Houghton, DSO, of the 11th Sikhs, was six feet three, and so haughty that the cadets were in awe of him. They rarely saw him, but now he was on an inspection tour. If the commandant had arrived three second later, Thimayya's military career undoubtedly would have been cut off then and there. "Is everyone happy?" the commandant asked. "No!" Thimayya shouted without thinking. The colonel's eyebrows raised. "No, what?" he asked. "We're not happy. We're starving."

A few minutes later, however, the six boys in starvation corner each received a four-egg omelet. The next day the families of the other cadets disappeared. By standing up to the colonel, the six boys found that they had acquired prestige.

More important, from then on the cadets formed into groups of those who had manners and those who did not. Those who did not either learned fast or failed to pass.

Other cadets could not pass the physical requirements. Mohammed Zafar Alam was an example. His father was the chief detective officer to the Viceroy. Zafar was 25 years old, and to the other cadets was a man of the world. He should have been a poet; in fact, he did compose magnificently in Urdu. He also was a clearer mimic. He knew by heart the famous speeches of Gandhi, Jinnah, and other nationalists. He could keep the boys spellbound with these speeches or have them rolling on the floor laughing at his droll stories. He was the most brilliant student and popular cadet, but in sports or physical training he was hopeless. Thimayya still remembers him padding helplessly on his flat feet after a hockey ball or stumbling over them on the drill field. Zafar Alam considered physical activity beneath his dignity, and he failed to graduate.

What first intrigued the cadets about Quadratulla were the mysterious things he ate. He kept a silver pandaan in a kerosene tin under his bed. Surreptitiously he would dip into his mixture of spices, pills, pan, and heaven-knows-what, and eat it a spoonful at a time. Finally the boys caught him at it. Thimayya asked him why he did not share his sweets.

He was more so a few days later when the boys took up the matter of his coiffeur. The cadets had grown displeased with the way he combed his hair so meticulously. One day, therefore, when Quadratulla was dozing in the barber's chair, Thimayya bribed the barber to shave his head. When the Nawabzada woke and saw what had been done to him, he vented his wrath on the poor barber, whose very life the cadets had to protect.

Even with these pastimes, the Maulvi's class was dull. He always wore a green coat; ultimately, in their ennui, the boys took to speculating on whether he had only one green coat or several exactly alike. Opinion on the subject was equally divided. One day, to settle the matter, Thimayya squirted some ink from his pen onto the back of the teacher's coat. Thereafter, the teacher continued to wear daily the one ink-spotted green coat. Eventually, however, he appeared in a white silk jacket. He went to the blackboard and wrote, "Mera hara kot par sahai kisne dala"' ("Who put ink on my green coat?") He asked the boys to write the phrase a thousand times. Today, General Thimayya says, these are the only Urdu words he can use with complete authority, but they did not help him much for a career in the Indian Army.

More helpful to his career was his enthusiasm for sports. Despite cadets like Zafar Alam, Quadratulla, and Mohinder, the college had some good athletes, and instruction was excellent. Squash, tennis, hockey, football, cricket, fencing, boxing riding, and swimming were compulsory, and Thimayya was outstanding in all of them. Near the end of the 18-month term the college was visited by the Chief of the General Staff, Sir Claude Jacob. The festivities included a cricket match. Thimayya was in good form that day and scored a century. He slugged a sixer, which landed among the spectators, nearly clouting the general. Fortunately, the general was a keen cricketer himself. Instead of holding rancor, therefore, he remembered Thimayya—a fact that was definitely an asset in Thimayya's future.

The most important asset to the cadets' physical training was Sergeant Major German, of the Durham Light Infantry. He was a perfect example of that famous—but, alas, vanishing—breed of British drill instructors. He was complete with beefy figure, crimson face, waxed mustache, a voice that could cause snow slides on the Himalayan slopes from Mussoorie into Tibet, and a command of profane invective that could sear the souls of sweating cadets.

"Gawdammit, Quadratulla," he would bellow, "you look like a pragnint woman. Have yer pups on yer own bloody time—not on my drill field."

"Mr. Zafar, Gor bli'me, are you trying to have relations with that wooden horse? Don't try to go into it. Go over it!"

"Come on, Thimayya, don't look at the ground. You won't find yer commission there. Look up for your star."

Thimayya's training with the Reserves helped him now, and he never really suffered from the sergeant major's brutal tongue. In fact, he took to visiting the old soldier in the cottage at the college entrance, where the sergeant major's further duty was to see that the cadets were properly dressed when they went out. He would tell Thimayya wonderful stories of the old days in the British Army.

Thimayya nearly lost the old man's friendship, however, on the occasion of the Prince of Wales' visit to the college in 1922. Sergeant Major Gorman held a vast reverence for British royalty, and he was terrified that his Indian charges might disgrace him. For days previous to the visit, the cadets drilled until they were ready to drop. Actually, they had little to do but to stand in line during the royal inspection. The Prince was shorter than Thimayya, and when he came to Thimayya's place in line, the young cadet lowered his eyes to have a good look at the royal visitor.

The sergeant major caught the misdemeanor. After the parade he approached Thimayya, his face livid. "I saw you, Thimayya," he shouted. "Disgraceful! Shame on yer! Why did you lower your eyes?" "I wanted to see the Prince of Wales," the boy answered. A look of surprise came over the old soldier's face. He considered the answer and slowly deflated. "That's a good reason," he admitted finally. Then he collected himself and shouted, "But don't let it happen again."

The sergeant major was strongest when the cadets were at their weakest: six o'clock in the morning. They began their day with thirty minutes of physical training. Breakfast was at 6:30. The boys attended classes from 7:30 until 12:30. After lunch they rested and studied until 4:30, when the games and drill began. Before dinner at eight, they were allowed an hour of relaxation, during which they could stroll through the spacious grounds or collect for bull sessions in the tuck shop. When the dinner bugle sounded, they gathered in the anteroom, where the roll was called and orders for the day were read by the cadet captain.

The food was wholesome, but usually English dishes were served. The idea was to get the Indian boys used to the food they would receive at Sandhurst. Thimayya had already learned to eat it, but many cadets found it too bland to be satisfying. Even Thimayya considered it tasteless, but he got by because he liked milk, which the boys were supposed to drink and which many of the cadets did not like. Thimayya would pass a jug under the table and thereby collect at least an extra quart of milk with every meal.

The period after dinner until lights-out at ten o'clock was the most pleasant of the day. The cadets collected in the dormitories for horseplay and relaxation. During this period they would make life miserable for types like poor Quadratulla. They would laugh at Zafar Alam's mimicry or listen wide-eyed to Mohinder's experiences with women. Thimayya's own contribution was popular. He had learned to play the mouth organ, and he knew most of the popular dance tunes. His friends would make him blow until he choked, while they sang these songs together.

Except for weekends, when they were allowed to go on picnics or to films, their only other relaxation was meant to be with the various religious programs. The few Christians among the cadets participated in church activity in town. At the college, however, rooms were set aside as a mosque for the Moslems, a gurdwara (shrine) for the Sikhs, and a mandir (temple), for the Hindus.

The Sikhs' service was the most interesting, and therefore the most popular. It was led by a six-foot-three-inch ex-soldier. He read from the Granth Sahib with great forcefulness, and told exciting tales of army life. At the finish, fruit and sweets were served.

The Moslem service was almost as popular. The mullah also was an ex-army man who made his sermons interesting. But the Hindu service was dull. The mandir was a bare room with a cheap plaster murthi (idol) and a dusty lithograph picture on the wall. The service was led by a Brahman in a cotton dhoti with his hair in a topknot. He would sit with his back to the boys, throwing flower petals at the murthi and muttering Sanskrit slokas (verses) until time to leave. Soon the Hindu cadets were attending the Sikh and Moslem services.

One day the Brahman approached Thimayya, obviously having worked himself up into high dudgeon. By this time Thimayya was the cadet commander of his section and the senior Hindu cadet. The Brahman blamed him for the lack of attendance at the service. Thimayya was setting a bad example for the others, and the Brahman criticized him bitterly.

Thimayya lost patience, and with the tactlessness of youth described what was wrong with the Brahman personally and with the service generally. He outlined a plan for the improvement of both. The Brahman should dress and wear his hair like a civilized person. He should forget Sanskrit and shood (pure) Hindi when talking to the cadets. The mandir should be made attractive, the congregation should participate in the service, and afterwards refreshments should be served. Probably no one had ever spoken so bluntly to the Brahman before. He was too shocked to reply.

A week later, however, he called a meeting of the Hindu cadets. The boys hardly recognized him; his hair was cut and he was wearing a suit. He asked for their co-operation in making the mandir and the service more attractive. They all pitched in with money and effort. Within a month, the Hindu service become as popular as the others. Thimayya believed that religious training at the college was intelligently handled. The cadets acquired a tolerance for and an understanding of the religious practices of other people.

But no tolerance was extended to those who failed to maintain the standards in study and drill. Probably the British disliked admitting that Indians could keep up with them on their own level. Thus every flaw in each cadet was searched for and pounced upon. Those who could not make quickly the necessary corrections were expelled. Those who could maintain the rigid British standards were well treated—but by the time Thimayya's 18 months at the college were up, it was clear that only sheer competence would get him through the Sandhurst examinations.

The examinations were held in Simla. They were open to students from all over India. Only a small number who took the exams would get a Sandhurst appointment. Competition, therefore, was keen.

In addition, scholastic grades were only half of the requirements. For every few applicants, a British officer was appointed. His duty was to stay with his charges constantly and report on the personality and general deportment of each. If the boy passed this scrutiny, he went through a private interview with the Chief of the General Staff. And last, the poor boy faced an interview with that most lofty of all personages, the Viceroy of India, who then was Lord Reading.

The Dehra Dun graduating class of five boys therefore approached the examinations with feelings that amounted to terror. Thimayya stood at the head of most of his classes, and he was the cadet captain, but he still had doubts about winning a Sandhurst appointment. As part of the graduation celebration the five graduating cadets were invited to Colonel Houghton's house. For once this haughty soldier unbent, and Thimayya voiced his fears to him.

"I shouldn't think you need worry," the colonel said to him. "You did well in your studies."

"But my Urdu is poor," Thimayya said.

"Yes," the colonel admitted. "But you may do well enough in your other exams to make up for it." He saw that the boy was still not convinced and added, "Let me get you a drink."

He ordered Thimayya a John Collins. It was Thimayya's first alcoholic drink. Except for the bitters, he found the taste pleasant enough. Drinking it made him feel a man of the world, and his fears vanished.

They returned, however, during his first day in Simla. The captain assigned to him was a languid, adenoidal Englishman with an obvious distaste for The Native. He watched Thimayya's every action so carefully that within a few hours the boy was nearly overcome with self-consciousness. Thimayya felt like a clumsy- oaf, and was sure that the notes jotted down about him would disgrace him for the rest of his life.

To make matters worse, Thimayya's first test was in Urdu. The written paper required him to translate into English a passage from the Field Service Regulations. He recognized only one word, "hai," meaning "it is." He wrote these words and drew a line through the rest of his paper.

Then he was called in for the oral test. The examiner was an English colonel, a fat man with a rosebud mouth that folded delicately around the ltish Persian phrases. He asked in English, "Where are you from?" "Coorg," Thimayya replied.

The colonel closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "This is a test in the Urdu language," he advised. "I shall query you in English. You will reply in Urdu." "I don't know any," Thimayya said.

The colonel looked up for the first time. It was as though he were regarding a fish—long dead. "Urdu is compulsory in the Sandhurst examination," he said. "How can you expect an appointment without passing this test?" "I expect to get enough good grades in the other courses," Thimayya said. The colonel just blinked. Then his mouth became ugly. "Get out," he said. The other exams went better, however, and Thimayya even got used to the adenoidal captain's breathing down his neck. Finally, he was received for his personal interview with the Chief of the General Staff, Sir Claude Jacob. "You look familiar, boy," the general began. "What's your name?" "Thimayya, sir."

Sir Claude laughed and put out his hand. "Good luck, my boy," he said, and the interview was over.

The interview was successful, and Thimayya was now ready for the final hurdle, the inspection by the Viceroy. It happened that a cousin of Thimayya's,

Thimayya joined him in laughing and felt that the Englishman was reconsidering the notes he had written in his little book.

Then came a silent signal. The English officer put a hand on Thimayya's arm. "It's your turn," he said, "Keep your wits about you, what?"

The great doors swung open, and Thimayya found himself in an even more awesomely hushed and majestic room. In the center in a great chair sat the Viceroy. Behind him stood a phalanx of imposing officers. His Excellency had that stiff-back-limp-wrist look peculiar to the British aristocracy. Thimayya though that if the Christian explanation of creation were the correct one, then the Almighty with His archangels must look like this. Nevertheless, he walked across the acre of rich carpeting and, despite his quaking knees, managed to click his heels sharply.

The Viceroy glanced at a paper. "You're Thimayya?" he asked. The boy's first reply posed the problem of how to address the personage properly. As Apukka (genuine) lord, he had the right to be so addressed. This title, however, was tricky. The British said, "M'Lord" as one word, with the accent on the last syllable, and in English any other way of saying it sounded absurd. Some cadets had blundered trying to use this address. Some said merely "Lord, ".others "My Lord," still others "Your Lord," and one poor befuddled boy had said, "Oh Lord." But the simple "Sir" was equally correct and infinitely easier. "Yes, sir," Thimayya replied.

"Where are you from?" was the next question. "From Coorg, sir."

"Ah, Coorg," Lord Reading said. "Every timfe I go to Mysore I intend to visit Coorg, but I never have the time. Tell me, is it as lovely as they say?" This was luck. "Coorg, Its Past, Present, and Future" was one of the topics

At first, His Excellency listened, nodding from time to time. But then a twinkle came into his eye, and a smile crept across this face. Thimayya was into "Coffee, Its Effect on the Economy of Coorg" and had only minute to go when the Viceroy stopped him. "What games do you play?" he asked. Hockey; •cricket, football, tennis, and squash," Thimayya replied. "Indeed?" the Viceroy said, still smiling. He made an imperceptible signal, and an aide-de-camp stepped to Thimayya's side. "I hope you enjoy Sandhurst" was the Viceroy's parting comment.

Thimayya was at the door before he realized the full meaning of the comment. His Sandhurst appointment was assured! In the anteroom, he forgot himself to the extent of giving a whoop of joy. He even felt benevolent toward poor old Adenoids and shook him warmly by the hand. "Good show," the Englishman said. "Jolly good show. Have another port." Thimayya did.

Ten minutes later Bopayya came out equally elated. He too had had no difficulty in getting onto one of his prepared subjects. His topic was "Madras University, Its Past, Present, and Future." The Viceroy also had wished him a good time at Sandhurst. Thimayya had another port to celebrate with Bopayya but both boys were too excited to be affected by mere alcohol.

Thimayya was also excited about an invitation to visit Zafar Alam in Delhi. He had not seen the imperial city of India before. Zafar may not have been fitted for a military career, but he was well adapted to the cosmopolitan life of the capital. He took his guest sightseeing and to parties where, for the first time Thimayya met urban and sophisticated Indians of his own age. Thimayya began to feel very grown up.

On his last night in Delhi, Zafar promised him a special nautch show. Zafar's father dined out that evening, and the two boys had the house to themselves. Thimayya had visions of scantily clad houris who would compete with each other for his virtue. He looked forward to the evening with considerable excitement.

After dinner, Zafar had the room cleared of furniture. Sheets were spread over the carpets. Bolsters and cushions were brought so that the boys could loll comfortably on the floor. Zafar then clapped his hands, and five musicians entered. Each seemed more evil-looking than the others; together they gave to the room a sinister atmosphere which increased Thimayya's excitement.

Suddenly two women came through the doorway, twirling and stamping their bare feet rhythmically. The silver bells on their ankles tinkled in time with their dance. Their saris were in flashing colors. They seemed covered with jewels that burned with myriad bright flames. Thimayya's heart pounded furiously.

The entertainers stopped in front of the boys and began their performance. One would chant a verse while the other would interpret the words with undulating hips, quivering breasts, and lecherous leers. Then the girls would exchange roles. This went on and on.

Unfortunately, Thimayya knew little about this type of music and dancing. He gathered that the show was meant to be voluptuous, but he understood none of the details. Also the girls were fat and coarse-looking, and both had hideously betelblackened teeth. Often they stopped to spit panjuice into a lotha. And still the show went on and on. Thimayya's excitement gave way to disappointment.

Thimayya tried to rib him by outdoing this performance, but Zafar did not seem to know that Thimayya was there. Occasionally a girl would flip a hip in Thimayya's direction, but both performers soon realized that his appreciation of their act was not sincere, and they abandoned him to concentrate on the host.

Years later, when Thimayya had learned more Urdu and was more familiar with North Indian music and dancing, he went to a similar performance at a nawab's palace. The girls were more attractive and better trained. Thimayya put

on an exaggerated demonstration oi appreciation, as Zafar had done. To his chagrin, however, no one laughed. On the contrary, the others took him seriously as a genuinely cultured type.

Thimayya's family took his Sandhurst appointment seriously and when he returned to Coorg. A large clan celebration was staged for him. He had never felt more flattered. Only his mother seemed to doubt that he was a worthwhile member of the community. She remembered his days of mischief at Bishop Cotton's, and was not convinced that he could change so completely so quickly. His enthusiasm for his new career, rather than his protestations of innocence, finally settled her fears.

But then she developed new fears about her son. In his youth, she had visited England, but now her memory of European culture concerned mainly the French. The insouciant French attitude toward morality disturbed her the most. To Thimayya she seemed to picture Europe as populated with predator females, avid for her son's innocence. Like most Indian boys of the period, Thimayya was innocent for his age, and his mother now tried to educate him about Women. Her explanations, however, were so delicate that he remained as much in the dark as before. He did get the impression that mere proximity to a willing Parisienne could mean getting the most fearsome diseases.

But the high points of that summer in 1924 were his talk with his relatives Ponappa and Cariappa; the latter was one day to become India's first Commander-in-Chief. That summer the two older men were both subalterns, and their stories as advice gave young Thimayya his real inspiration for army life. At this point, he ceased to consider any other kind of life. Because the British dominated the army, the only kind of life he could consider became dependent upon his relations with the British. Thus his attitude toward them entered a new phase. He thought of them collectively instead of individually, and he knew he must strive to equal the best that they could produce.