Abode of the Peacock - 5000 years in history - Transfer to
Iganga - Long drop lavatory - And the wind shuddered and
shrieked - Kings Warriors - Where the Leopard skulked
Princess on the mango tree - Local perks - Song of wild
Africa - Retracing steps - Breed of Postmasters - now extinct -
Reticent, dismal, dreary, derelict site.

When time who steals our years away,
Shall steal our pleasures too,
The memory of the past will stay
And half cur joys renew.
Thomas Moore

My first vacation leave in India was coming to a close. I set out to say farewell to my village Moron, literally abode of the peacock. The day I alighted on Mother Earth, these birds of paradise, descended on the roof-tops and danced. The dance continues with their rainbow plumage fluttering in the aromatic air. It is a spectacle to be witnessed to be believed. I returned to Sunetra where I grew up. Its history goes back to 5000 years. The original place is now ruins. The Greeks, Scythians, Parthians, Kushans and Yodheyas, once held sway and had their mint sites here. There is a mound where I have often sat. In the seclusion, silence and emptiness, I have tried to listen to the rattle of swords and footsteps of the ancients. It may be, I inhabited the neighbourhood in a former incarnation!

A 1000 miles long train trek from the vast plains of Punjab brought me to Bombay. And then drifting for ten blue days on the bosom of the great and wide Indian Ocean, the ship cast anchor at Mombasa, which was my last station before sailing to Colombo in a cargo boat. It was the 6th day of May, 1946.

I was on my familiar terrain, amongst smiling faces and was glad to feel the tossing sea breeze. Alas, the analogous days of sailing ships are no more. A representative from the Crown Agents boarded the ship and handed me instructions of my posting to Kabale in Uganda.

My wife Kaushalya, whom I had met and married during my holidays, was hesitant to accompany me to the dark continent. Uganda, specially, was considered an arena of mosquitoes, malaria and black water fever. She had belonged to Lahore, the most beautiful city of the orient. It is said that who has not seen Lahore, is not born. As I had spent my first tour of service in Kenya, cruising from office to office, almost all over the country, I was not pleased with the transfer and felt distressed.

We took the train to Kampala. When it halted at Nairobi, Mr. Sethi from Postmaster General's office, delivered me another communication, telling me to proceed to Iganga instead of Kabale. We went to the General Post Office to try to have the transfer altered to Kenya. Unfortunately, the officer concerned was not available. We therefore, returned to the railway station and proceeded to Nsinze, the railhead for Iganga.

The staff comprised of the Postmaster, a telegraphist cum telephonist and an office boy named Rajabu. Rajabu was a cheerful fellow in his late forties but looked far older than his age. Besides all the services generally offered at a Post Office, as it was post war period, we had to deal with an abnormally large number of savings bank withdrawals. Hundreds of men who went to different battle fronts in various capacities, were due their lump sum gratuities. The authorities had seen to it that the money paid to them should last for a reasonable period. They were thus issued with Savings Bank pass books with the amount due to them, duly entered. It varied from person to person but as far as I recall, was in the region of 2000 shillings.

In the early morning, the Kings warriors, after walking long distances from their villages, would begin converging at the Post Office. They would sit, squat or lie down on a patch of green grass, some smoking a pipe. They had tales to narrate about their exploits from distant war zones. As the day advanced, a hawker with a giant tea pot would appear and take a round to sell them a cup of hot tea. The combatants' comings and goings went on. The assembly reminded you of a scene from a Persian bazaar.

No sooner we opened at 8.00am, these tall, hefty soldiers would make a sprint at the counter window which measured 18 inches high and 15 inches wide. The money book issued by the serikali in hand; there was glare in their eyes and alacrity in their stride. Their fortnightly withdrawals usually amounted to twenty shillings. At this pace, their savings could last for some four years. To be honest, to attend to some 40 persons a day for one specific class of transaction and satisfy yourself about proof of their identity which was not easy to establish, I must say, was a tough and exhausting task. However, it was part of the game. I would have missed their company if and when they had exhausted their deposits. By the time we were shut, they had turned their backs on us and trickled homewards, walking majestically, with the wage packet or mushaira in their pockets. Their big day and excursion was over.

Wherever I saw service in East Africa, I had a habit of rummaging to find old and obsolete records in a forgotten corner or a tiny forsaken store. During my quest at Iganga, besides other interesting material, I came across an old Post Office guide. It bore the name: Churanji Lal Phakey - 1927. I leapt up at the discovery as the writer was my maternal uncle. When I met him in his village Katani in the Punjab, he related to me, the saga of his days at Iganga. He had manned the Post Office from a tent. It was not an uncommon sight to spot a leopard skulk or a lion roar in the vicinity. Incidentally, three of my uncles worked for the Posts and Telegraphs Department. A number of my relatives were employees of Kenya, Uganda Railways and Harbours. Their ashes, in some cases, have become part of the African soil without name, slab or stone.

When the shadows of darkness fell, we were left on our own in isolation. Occasionally someone would enter the premises to clear his Post Office letter box. Otherwise there was nothing to disturb the stillness and solitude. There were times, it rained throughout the night. In the morning, the environment was pellucid, fresh and fragrant. The smell of crisp, wet African earth and the foliage is a bliss to experience. A peculiar sensation passes through your veins.

We had 20 mango trees and two gulab jambu trees. The latter bears a greenish-white fruit about two inches square and is thought to help in heart-related ailments. At lunch hour, our house boy would climb the highest branch and pick the sweetest, orange-red, ripe mangoes. In a fairy tale, it is said that if you pluck a pomegranate or a mango from the top branch and of course, if the luck is with you, a princess would emerge from the fruit, kiss you and wed you! In real life or stretch of your illusion, if you travel to Iganga; remember the royalty is looking forward to kiss her prince charming!

At certain Post Offices there was a custom of minor local perks. At Iganga, the Postmaster was eligible for:

A full lorry load of kuni or firewood which was delivered as and when required.

Any quantity of cotton from the local ginnery for mattresses, quilts and pillows.

There did not used to be tapped water in the town or at the Post Office. A month before my arrival, a hand pump was installed by the town committee where a four gallon debe was sold for 20 cents. The Postmaster was allowed 20 complimentary gallons daily.

I remember my young servant fetching water from half a mile away. He would balance the tin on his head on a roundish cushion, made of grass, in such a fashion that both his hands remained free. His whole structure would swing and fly in the crunchy, invigorating, unpolluted surroundings. There was elasticity in his gait and he would hum a song of wild Africa in his native Busoga. The ecstasy of the music from the days glided away comes back to me from afar and I feel glum for the passage of two score and ten years.

There were about 100 Indian shops or commercial establishments which met all your needs. They included three provision stores, a garage, a photographer, a carpenter, and a barber. Lalji Jutha's was the best well stocked shop. The off license was owned by a Goan, Mr.Cota, who was a real gentleman. There was a cotton ginnery and a mission.

Some 15 miles away is Bugiri, a hamlet where you could buy sweet, juicy superior quality tangerines. Another place is Kalaki, 22 miles from Soroti. In subsequent years, I used to make a deviation from the main road to call there. An Arab who knew me from my Postmastership at Soroti, would make an exceptional endeavour with his long bamboo pole to get for me the best fruit.

The Education Department appointed my wife as a teacher. I handed over the office to Mr. Swami and we prepared to go to Kampala. It was a sparkling morning. The ex-troopers had begun gathering. I had a last, lingering look at their camp and the mango grove. I was leaving magical moments of dawn of spring in my life. With all our worldly possessions at the back of the vehicle, the lorry started with a jerk. A bird hovered overhead to say goodbye.

I had dreamt of retracing my steps to areas where I had worked. In 1996 my desire was fulfilled and I was able to travel to Kenya and Uganda for two months. To begin with, I decided to traverse the road to Iganga. From Kampala, we followed the old trail. Our car went at a leisurely pace through landmarks we recognized. It was a joy to look at baskets of bananas, passion fruit and avocadoes on the wayside. Memories of half forgotten incidents came surging back with the sweet smell of smoke ascending from homesteads. We passed by the well known Mehta and Madhwani Sugar Mills. As we came nearer to our destination, I was in my realm of fantasy. At last, Iganga, a sleepy town was there. Because the Post Office was the first building, we entered its grounds. I closed my eyes and the time took a reverse turn. I felt, I had arrived on my first posting. I was but a ghost of my yesterdays.

My Post Office had disappeared, a new one had come up. I could notice the vestiges of the old foundations. The telegraph circuit was no more. There is a camaraderie amongst the Post Office crew. The staff gathered around and greeted me - a milestone of a vanished age. They wanted to hear story of a by-gone day. I was pleased to meet a retired member who remembered me from my term, there. I thought I was still a fragment of the Post Office.

Out of 20 mango trees, only four were left. Fortunately, the one where the damsal royal still dwells, was there. I stood in its shade, looked above and felt she was awaiting her beloved. Perhaps her wait is eternal.

Iganga had developed and changed. Indian traders whom I knew had left and were replaced by the indigenous community. Some 25 Indians, incidentally, all Patels, new to the country, had opened their businesses. Their attitude to life was different from their predecessors.

In retrospect, hundreds of miles away from Iganga and with the distance in time, a thought arises in me that the band of Postmasters scattered all over the upcountry stations in Kenya, Uganda and Tanganyika, belonged to a distinct breed. It occurred so often, the Postmaster was the only individual who represented the sovereign. He played a pioneering part in opening the three territories. Their species is now extinct and their turbulent world dead. I saw it depart. In another twenty years, nobody would remember or be left to recount their story. A short chapter of East African history would be lost to posterity.

The day was dying and I had miles to go. I looked at the tract where the old servicemen used to assemble. They had dispersed and no longer come that way. The reverberation of their chatter looms in the vacuity. The site looked reticent, dismal, dreary and derelict. We left the mango land behind and turned towards Kampala. There was a lump in my throat.

Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen,
I now can see no more.
William Wordsworth