I wished I had some knowledge of Hindustani, and began to think over any words he might recognise.
“You ever hear of Rabindranarth Tagore, Johnnie?” I asked him. The name of the great writer came to mind.
He shook his head. “No, sergeant,” he answered.
“Buddha, Johnnie?” His face gleamed and he showed his great white teeth.
“No, Buddie.”
“Mahomet, Johnnie?”
“Yes—me, Mahommedie,” he said proudly.
“Gunga, Johnnie?” I asked, remembering the name of the sacred river Ganges from Kipling's “Kim.”
“No Gunga, sa'b—Mahommedie, me.”
“You go Benares, Johnnie?”