To keep a strict watch up and down the whole Sub-Division of the Canal on one’s charge in Punjab was not altogether a bed of roses in the bygone days as it might appear. There were hazards involved, that too fairly dangerous ones. During lean periods, irrigation water used to be a sought after commodity. Big landlords naturally had bigger stakes. They needed more water than the scheduled rationing and would be unhappy if not obliged. The Sub-Divisional Officer (SDO) used to be authority around whom the whole matter swivelled. Therefore, quite a few would resort to a familiar pattern of approach: try to bribe their way in by materials like pedigree horses, high yielding milch buffaloes, farm produce of all kinds and even cash. If that did not work, they would use their political and high level official connections to seek a favourable disposition, if not a decision. Finally, veiled threats or outright water theft. All these tricks required a lot of balance, composure and hard work to offset and finally defeat. Hard work meant to physically run a canal patrol and frequent inspections in person. My father had a 1950 Ford car for just such a purpose. It was a piece of solid rock on large rubber tires with shiny spoked wheels, curvaceous body, a prominent cupola and a bulging boot. Its steam engine, like polished head lamps, were peculiarly attached to the bonnet on the wings of a gleaming front grill. The bumpers were chrome-plated and capable of knocking out an errant goat or so that might have the audacity to cross their path in motion. It had a robust floor-shift and was cranked up to a thundering roar with the help of a handle wielded by an equally sturdy driver. The only awkward thing was that its side doors would open in opposite directions needing special training of the new driver in respectful passenger handling. This car was his safari vehicle with which he used to tour his rural domain. We would know a few days in advance that a tour is going to be underway, not that it would be formally announced but because a thorough maintenance regime of the car used to be set off — service, polishing, tire pressure, puncture repair kit, oil levels, cleaning battery terminals including chasing out an odd spider or two out of the car cabin. Soon two wooden boxes would be brought out. One was an ingenious container for dry rations that would be placed in the car boot and sustain my father’s tour of outstation duty. The other was made to order container for his gas lamp, a lantern and what goes with them like extra wicks, mantles, spirit dispenser and nozzle opener for cleaning and maintenance. Files and folders, a spare set of reading glasses and some technical gadgets perhaps to check water outlets, etc, along with a clothing suitcase would be duly placed in the car. Dressed in his safaris with a solar hat he would kick off for the trip. A solar hat was a headgear that was essentially made of reed stalks as heat insulators and covered with cloth. I have hardly seen a calmer man when expected difficulties could be so tough; or maybe every father is looked up to the same way by his young children. A stickler for perfection, a bump in the service track, unpainted bridge or a muddy gauge would annoy him but a tempered water outlet would make him ballistic. That in his reckoning was a cardinal sin and utterly unforgiveable. His intense application and rigorous investigation to unearth the crime were remarkable. That resulted in a wider acceptance, rather liking, for him among the farmers and peasants. Unbeknown to him someone once approached his British chief engineer to cancel his posting out from a particular Sub-Division. The chief was furious and admonished my father for a possible positioning, but was extremely fond of him. That was the service decorum that is seriously amiss these days. Then disturbing news started to make rounds of the neighbouring villages that a band of dacoits had been spotted in the wild along the river belt. Such a thing was unheard of in those days where at best a few notorious thieves, basically cattle rustlers, were known to operate under the patronage of certain big landlords. While the locals were devising various ways to tackle this new and dangerous threat, my father decided to buy a shotgun. His guns had been lost or probably stolen during the great migrations that were set off by partition. He never talked of those times, which we later learnt were full of bitter but dreadful episodes of murder, mayhem and carnage while the family had to trudge from Ludhiana to West Punjab. He bought a semi-automatic, five shot, Belgian shotgun for a price that appeared like a fortune in those days. The news spread quickly and we began to receive distinguished visitors just to see the feared weapon. That was possibly one of the few guns among the whole cluster of villages around. It possibly had a very desirable deterrent effect, as we learnt through the rural grapevine that the dacoit band had crossed over to the other side of the river and was now gone. In those valiant days some well known dacoits or more appropriately fugitives used to carry sturdy, specially treated combat shafts wrapped with metal around their ends, a few sabres or spears. There were stories of how a fearless fugitive beat a batch of villagers with expert handling of his combat shaft singlehandedly. Some of the villagers had to be carried to the hospital after the fight. Folklore probably. Firearms were rare and of great value then. Once we were invited to a pig sticking meet by a local landlord. One has never seen such a spectacle of precision, guts, physical violence and danger in a single frame. These days it may be extremely rare to see something like that .We were taken to a grove of trees far outside the village, where a temporary perch made of logs and poles was constructed for about a dozen men, about 10 feet in height. A hundred or so yards ahead were foxholes dug where a band of men had hidden themselves with their long-handled lances specially made for pig-sticking. At a distance off to the left we saw almost a squadron of horsemen with gleaming spears accompanied by the drummers heading towards the thick wild growth of reed along the riverbank. They were going at a comfortable canter but the drummers were beating madly. Suddenly a kind of a war cry went up from the horsemen and they put their horses into gallop as they neared the reeds. (To be continued) The writer is a retired brigadier of the Pakistan Army. He can be reached at clay.potter@hotmail.com