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Last of the old sahibs in Delhi
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An eccentric man he was, Webb Sahib was perhaps one of the last of the old sahibs, says R.V. SMITH
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Who wants a wife when one is happy otherwise
Among those who could be classified as the last of the old sahibs was Webb. Dressed in khaki shorts, half-sleeved shirt, stockings and with a sola-topee on his head, he walked passed the Civil Lines with a shopping bag on his way to Kashmere Gate. Webb used to live in Bungalow No. 8 on Ludlow Castle Road after leaving Neharwali Kothi (not the one where Gen. Musharraf was born).
It was so named because it was built on a stream that was a part of the Agra Canal flowing from Delhi.
Later he moved to the vicinity of the YMCA in Agra, where existed Fantasia, one-time abode of an Anglo-Indian magistrate and writer Fanthome. He was the one who authored "Mariam, A Story of the Mutiny", which became the inspiration for Ruskin Bond's novel, "A Flight of Pigeons", made into the film "Junoon" with Shashi Kapoor as the Pathan hero, co-starred with wife Jennifer.
Not walking but cycling down from the Civil Lines to Kashmere Gate was a Rajput sirdar, shirt tucked into breeches, wearing riding boots and a starched olive coloured turban, with a silver-headed cane under his armpit. The sirdar would buy vegetables from Puran Khalifa's shop, where the latter's brother, Moti Choudhury managed the morning sale. Many a time his path crossed that of Webb sahib, the two only exchanging a nod but hardly conversing.
Eccentric sahib
Webb sahib was fair, though sun-burnt, of medium build with an aquiline nose, grey eyes and hair parted at the side, which looked plastered with vaseline as per the fashion of the 1930s.
He was a confirmed bachelor and spoke Hindustani with ease, poignant proverbs embellishing his speech. Butcher Haji Barati and his son Sharfu were among his admirers, though they confessed that he was an eccentric sahib who, dressed in a suit, frequented the shrine of Shah Abul Ullah on Thursdays after most of the devotees had left, to meditate and inhale the aroma of joss-sticks and rose petals that littered the saint's grave.
"Kya jalwa tha kal raat ko," (what an aura there was last night) he would remark. Then followed a discourse on sufism. Webb sahib was a sort of mystic himself who sometime recounted his weird experiences, like strange forms emerging from the shadows of the shrine while the qawwali singers had bound everybody in ecstasy. This despite the fact that he was a member of the Church of England.
One day he appeared at the home of the Jacksons, with his brother Sydney, who lived in some other town. The purpose was to fix a match for him. Things did not work out and Sydney went back to where he had come from to resume his bachelor existence. "Who wants a wife when one is happy otherwise," remarked Webb sahib with a sigh of relief when someone asked him about it.
A contrast to him was Alexander sahib, who used to come every Sunday after church to buy mince and groceries, cycling all the way from Saunt-ki-Mandi. His first half was at the church of course. An incredibly thin man, wearing a camel-coloured coat over a full-sleeved shirt, broad-bottomed trousers, invariably white, held apart by clips, a tie with a fancy pin and small sola-topee to fit his head, he looked like an emaciated incarnation of Sherlock Holmes, a long cigarette stuck between his thin lips. Webb sahib would greet him sometimes if they met on the way and then continued with his long walk to chat with Doctor Bhoop.
Then there was Hines, tall, fair, slim as a reed and always accompanied on Sunday mornings by his pretty wife and son Kenneth to the Catholic church. He had been in the RAF but met with an accident as a result of which his intestines were so badly damaged that he could hardly eat solids.
But the irony was that he was a very good cook and continued to make weekend dinners for his family and their friend, the hunter Cyril Thomas.
They used to stay in the old house of the Michaels, the family to which Mrs. Hines belonged.
Hines died, his wife, despite vicious gossip, did not remarry but went away to England with son Kenneth. Alexander too passed away but Webb Sahib's whereabouts became a mystery.
He too must be dead now, unless he survives as a centenarian, still enjoying the Thursday qawwalis and going into mystic raptures.
But one misses the man as much as one misses Haji Barati - a link with the past that is hard to break!
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