ST. DUNSTAN'S IN INDIA

New Zealand Listener, Volume 11, Issue 264, 14 July 1944, Page 10

ST. DUNSTAN'S IN INDIA

With the Blinded Soldiers of this War

(By

Lieutenant-Colonel

Sir

Clutha

McKenzie

frROM the blinded Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Clutha McKenzie, of New Zealand, now stationed in India at the new St. Dunstan’s for blinded soldiers of this war in that country, comes the following graphic article, descriptive of a social and musical evening in that part of the Empire. ‘eT T was not a formal affair, just a family affair," writes Sir Clutha, "with 20 blinded soldiers, the solé audience being the Colonel Sahib and his Memsahib, and the Adjutant Sahib and his Memsahib, with the men sitting cross-legged on the matting floor of the recreation room before a bright fire in the open hearth, for Indian nights can be chill. "The music masterji (maestro) announces the opening chorus. It commences with a Western tonic sol-fa Scale, up and down, and then goes into a minor dirge-like chant. The masterji, with a ‘harmony’ (a kind of piano-accor-dion), Devigavas and Fakira, with djollok, accompany as well as_ sing. The last-mentioned instruments are drums, skins stretched tightly over cylinders of wood, played with bare hands. Much of the music is pleasant when one gets used to it-plaintive at times, like the music of the Highlandsand sometimes recalling a cat-fight on the tiles. e "We applaud, and we all warm up. Memraj Ram then gives a solo accompanying himself. He has lost hig right hand, but uses the forearm to work the bellows, whilst he plays the keys of his instrument with the three good fingers of his left hand. Naik Bichindas does a little tom-tomming’ in the background. Memraj hasn’t a good ear, so Masterji occasionally joins in the solo to bring the singer back to the track. It is a good effort for a maimed man, We call ‘Shahbash! Shahbash!’ "Yankat, a Mahratta, follows with a song from the distant western ghats, singing with feeling.. Krischinsagar, due to his wounds is, like Memraj, also a three-fingered, left-handed artist, and addresses sacred Rama in song. "There is a change of tempo. Indira Bahadur, from Everest’s snowy flanks, takes his turn. He is only a boy, with tiny girl-like hands. He ties on anklets of little silver bells. The ‘harmony’ and drums strike up a brisk Nepali rhythm, and Indira, bells a-tinkling merrily, does his stuff in a clear space in the middle of the room, while we keep time by clapping. * "Then we all call for Margo Bundo, We call in half a dozen languages that he must do something. A Dravidian, from the far south, he speaks only Tamil, and, poor chap, he might be deaf and dumb, for none of us can speak his _ tongué. Nevertheless, he gets the idea, (continued on next page)

(continued from previous page) He rises to his feet and bursts into a wild, high-pitched chant. The drums soon pick up his rhythm, and Margo begins a Nautch-like dance. Perhaps it is as well for our morals that we do not understand his words. Anyhow, Margo’s turn goes with a swing,.and he grows hot with the vigour of his effort. The Indians score over us , Westerners. There is nothing of stage fright or reticence about them in. playing their parts, good or bad, in a fraternal evening of this kind. Here is Margo, a jungli wallah, if ever there was one, from a primitive, remote village, and as near to the soil as well could be. "The next turn brings the house down. Our cheerful Ghurka, Tulea Tharpa, has been in a military band, and now despises both Nepali and Hindustani music. "Then Tulea gives us his masterpiece. It is a song ‘I Want to be Single’ Masterji is not very successful in providing an accompaniment, as waltz-time

is an unfamiliar metre in India. However, though Tulea’s effort may lack perfection, it goes down with a bang. Self-Applause "Everyone is jolly and happy. Each performer signals the end of his piece by heartily applauding himself, and we all join in. Who hasn’t contributed? Only Jaggar Singh, a bearded Sikh, who has only been with us a week, having been blinded in the Sicilian campaign. -He was miserable and depressed for the first two or three days, but has perked up a bit. ‘Give us a song.’ Unhesitatingly he begins. It is a Sikh invocation, a kind of psalm, as it were, to one of his gods, Fascinated, we listen. His voice is amazingly true, full of fervour, and ef good tone. We knew nothing of the words, but there was no mistaking the changing motifs of prayer, humility, obeisance, praise, ' submission, and triumph. . . . Sweet tea is served with sugary Indian cakes. We smoke our cigarettes, and so come to the end of a friendly hour. ‘Salaam, Sahib! Salaam Huzoor!’ ‘Salaam, salaam, salaam!’ "We walk across to our bungalow. The snow-covered mountain-crests hang a startling white in the peaceful moon_lignt. Sharp’ shadows are made by the palms and mango trees, so still in the silvered air. . . . Another day has passed."