Or, a tale of empire building
(This essay came about when I gave my English Language class a writing assignment some years ago. The topic was derived from one of the General Cambridge Examinations papers, a “past-year paper” which we are wont to say. I penned the essay along with my students, intending initially just to provide a “model” essay for them. Little did I realise that this very brief story would prove to be one of my best-loved ones)
“Play the game, boys…” Right, all well and good. Problem was, nobody told me it was the game of cricket! I’m sure my headmaster back in school on the Yorkshire plains must have mentioned something or another of the game of life! But cricket?!! And of all places, in Malaya!
Up till December last year, I had no idea where Malaya was, let alone the state of Perak. Actually, I did not even know the British were here governing it, or had been, for nearly a hundred years already. Francis Light was all mystery to me. Had it not been for the grace and kindness of my good friend Sherlock Holmes, with whom I spent a pleasant four days before my trip out East, and his trusty “Map of the British Empire”, I would still have been in the dark.
A bit of background first – it seems that tin in Perak was to be blamed for getting us Brits further into this sweltering peninsula than we ought to have. Because of some royal family dispute in the 1870s – was I born yet? – over who should be the next Sultan, trouble brewed in Perak. As if that was not enough, the locals roped in the two major Chinese secret societies for some moral support and you had it – anarchy! And anarchy was no good for our men who had their hands deep in tin. I suspect dear Andrew Clarke was just waiting for such an opportunity, y’know, for us to intervene, restore order out of chaos, bring light into darkness, forge peace out of trouble and all that. The upshot of it all was that by 1875, a British Resident was firmly in place in Perak. Mind you, not that Birchy was anything but a dreadful failure! Imagine sheltering runaway slaves and and trying to “bring things under his control”! All he did was to get his white hands dirty, poking his nice nose into other peoples’ business. And all he got was a native spear through him – while taking a bath!
All this made me a trifle nervous as I walked down the plank off the ship onto Singapore three weeks ago. Ah, Singapore. Trade, commerce and the advance of civilization! That’s what brought old Raffles out here, wasn’t it? Or was it just cold fear of the Dutch? At any rate, Singapore was a smashing place to spend a few days after a tedious sea journey. And the military band looked smart enough, blasting out the strains of Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves. I must admit to looking the part as I descended the wooden plank, gleaming in white cotton trousers and blazers, with the solar topee plonked squarely on my head. “Never go out into the sun without your topee!” so the old hands warned me as our ship sauntered all too slowly through the Suez Canal. Righto! Heads up now. Never mind the heat now. What I really wanted to know, I wondered to myself, was, just who ruled the sun and the oppressive heat? I was sweating out of every pore in my skin.
Too soon, I was on a boat up the Malacca Straits headed for Pangkor Island and then by bullock cart (!) to my station at Kuala Kangsar. Having failed my school exams in England, I had little choice but to head out East – “for your own good, my son” – said my father. If there was any consolation, I heard that the current Resident, Hugh Low, was a decent sort. I’d be on his staff. Sounded like a real pukka job, eh what!
My lodgings were good enough. Smart, black and white bungalow, neat garden and best of all, servants! Five, to be exact, for the three of us English bachelors. All local lads, sprightly enough and obedient. And calling me Tuan this, and Tuan that. If this was what serving the empire was all about…. then three cheers and a hurrah for the empire! I even managed to learn a couple of useful Malay phrases – “Boy! Mari sini lah! Cepat!” – which certainly enhanced our social intercourse somewhat.
Saturday should have been my day off. A real pukka sahib needs to rest and breathe a little, you know. Managing an empire was no light work. But they needed an eleventh man for the team and there were only eleven men on the staff. And that’s how I got donning the whites. But … cricket!! That was the game of game for sissies! I played rugby in school. Now that was a man’s game. Those who couldn’t play rugby played football. And those who couldn’t play football played cricket, and very reluctantly.
We were up against a local team comprising mostly Indians, but some Malays and Chinese. They looked dapper enough in their own whites, in fact, as they tossed the little red leather ball around with ease, accompanied by shouts of “shabash! Shabash!” they seemed a downright trim squad. Did I sense fire in their eyes? And to think that we Brits taught them the game.
The game itself went miserably for us. The locals were fired up all right, determined to beat us at our own game! Now if only they had stayed where they were supposed to be – be satisfied with their station in life - lose the cricket match like they were expected to, then the empire would roll along fine. It just didn’t do for the natives to be such upstarts and try to actually win! It wasn’t … cricket! But reeling at 54 for 9, they had got us cornered. Only one batsman left.
I struggled to stand, what in my pads and gloves and all. As our ninth batsman trudged gloomly back to the pavilion, it was up to me to save the match, and our pinkish white faces. Problem was … I’d never played cricket before! How did W.G. hold the bat with such consummate ease, I’ll never know, and swatting the ball around like it was a fly! My mates tried their best to cheer me up as I considered my ordeal ahead. But I was confused by their words of encouragement - “You’re in, old chap. Don’t you get out now!” and “Get out there, lad! Make an innings of it! Don’t come back in before tea!” among the more confounding ones.
As I reached the stumps, I cautiously took guard and prepared to face the bowler. He was a lanky Indian lad – Ashique or something was his name – boy was he tall. He started his run up slowly and then picked up speed until, at five metres from the bowling crease, he resembled a raging bull headed for the red. With smoke steaming out of his nostrils, he unleashed a real ripper….
I stood motionless, not knowing what to do.
It seemed like eternity. The treacherous red ballistic missile pitched some two thirds down the wicket and reared up menacingly, viciously kicking up dust and dirt in its backdraft. Then it steered straight for my head. There was only one thing to do – DUCK! And duck I certainly did. The ball whizzed by my head and smacked safely into the gloves of the wicketkeeper, Thowfikali, I think they called him, who gratefully acknowledged his bowler with suitable cries of “shabash! Shabash!”
When the second ball arrived, I attempted to smack it but failed to even see the ball. Back in the pavilion, shouts of encouragement were appropriately served – “Well left!” “Next one’s a boundary!” “Head up, boy”. Ashique’s third ball was what cricketers call a yorker. A full-length ball aimed at the base of my bat, next to my vulnerable feet. What could I do? I jerked the bat somewhere in the direction of down, missed the ball (naturally) but not my right toe. Then I heard the sound of bails being shattered. As I fell to the ground, grimacing in self-inflicted pain, I noticed that the sky above was a beautiful shade of blue. A lovely day to daydream. A lovely day for empire building. “OUT!” the plump Chinese umpire shouted to me. I understand that that’s the word no self-respecting batsman ever wants to hear, but for me, it was sheer joy. I’d had enough of this nonsense.
I walked slowly back to the pavilion. I tried to keep my head up, like a good sort, but couldn’t. Feeling sheepish and looking foolish, I retraced my steps back into the shade, yet another faithful empire builder.