I have a funny tale to tell

about a stout Baboo.

An Indian Civil servant,

very bureaucratic too.

His post was on the Kashmir road

to act as Customs Man.

To stop the flow of illegal goods.

He called it “contraban”.

 

For Kashmir State, when I knew it,

was ruled by Hari Sing.

A Hindu monarch, strict but fair,

who insisted on one thing.

No beef or any cattle parts,

unless alive could go,

into the happy Kashmir vale,

in deference to the Cow.

 

However strange that it may seem,

’twas quite beyond my ken.

The population of Kashmir

was mostly Mohammedan.

So eating pork was also banned.

For pigs are quite taboo.

So you can see our Customs Man

had lots of work to do.

 

Spirits too must be declared,

as well as beer and wine.

So everyone declared their booze,

in fear of princely fine.

The Baboo loved his powerful job

and could wither with a look,

all those who tried to break the law

according to his book.

 

His regulation manual

was a tome of massive size

and into this, majestically,

he checked for tax excise.

One day, for fun, a man declared

a package of “Bulls Eyes”.

A candy striped and peppermint,

like a “Humbug” in disguise.

 

The Baboo gazed at him sternly

and read him from the book,

the chapter and the verse involved

and said that he must look.

The man produced a tin of sweets,

to show it wasn’t bull.

The poor Baboo realized at last –

that his legs had, had a pull.

 

Magnanimous in his defeat,

he said with baleful stare.

Of course I knew that they were sweets,

what else must you declare?

I have some “Cocktails” in my bag,

they’re just for my own use.

I’ll check the book, the Baboo said,

turning a little puce.

 

He searched and searched for any sign

to indicate to him,

how much, if anything at all

was due in tax for them.

At last he came back to the man,

still waiting patiently there.

And said with ill disguised dislike,

No tax on tail feathers sir.

 
 

David Garlick, Victoria, 1986