Rudyard Kipling even though he likes to call himself an English writer or is considered so as for colonial allegiance and loyalty but is not as for Bombay being the place of birth and his India connection which he cannot do away with. He may think himself to be one of the British empire but is not exactly an Englishman of that type. He is a journo and his English is journo English. A journalist breaks and creates and recreates. His English is not even Anglo-Indian English, but is Hindustani English, pidgin-Indian English, Cockney verse. The English of the barracks it is, of the army men, the military men, the khaki men with rifles, tents and vans going to camp and patrol and search. An army man is his protagonist, an Anglo-Indian orphan his spokesman, the mouthpiece. Basically, the imperial hinge-over hangs on. Instead of it though he could not compromise with the Vedic and the Upanishadic stock, but compromised he with Buddha and Buddhism, it struck the chords of Kipling.

Kipling could not understand India or we could not? It is also a fact we have been so much divided by caste, creed and custom. Medievalism wreaked havoc. The looters looted and plundered India, the barbaric hordes without understanding Indian culture and thought. Had the English been not, India would not have remained India. We had been old, outmoded and outdated; medieval, backward, superstitions, fatalist, godly and blind to logic and reasoning.

A military man gay and hearty is regaling here or Kipling we taking him granted for an agent for the empire. He is thinking himself a military man of the British barracks in India. Whatever be that, let us peep into the lives of Tommy. What a life they had! Away from their home and hearth, they just lived for the empire. Before we take up this poem, we must know who Tommy were. How did they get enlisted in? What was their identity? Who were they?

We see the word, Tommy and think about what the meaning of it, how the coinage, how the forces enlisted, the regulars or irregulars, the private divisions, the ill-paid people sent to crush and control, oppress and suppress. From the word Tommy to Tommies, Tommys, Toms, ruthless Toms searching homes, visiting the country as for the freedom fighters, rebels and revolutionaries, patriots and nationalists.

In their military dress, boots and caps, packing to go, coming in droves, batches and groups wherever sent to during trouble and tribulation, tension brewing to control, rein in, take charge of the barrack men, camp men made for war, war.

The gossip of Tommy is lively, and they seem to be gale and hearty externally as they love to serve, away from the homecare they have been coaxed and lured to live which they go on serving, they are trying their best to give. Where their motherland, where do they send off to? Have they grown to serve? Are they for war? Kipling in a Cockney English just makes the light portraits of them. Whatever be the description of their life, as portrayed by Kipling, there is definitely a tinge of pathos.

How do people view Tommy? How do they take them? It is also a matter. How are they rushed to troubleshooting places?

When he goes into the shops, stands up before the people or the public, they take him not for good, they feel it awkward to be with dealing with him or enjoying is company.

We can still feel it Hindustani English or broken English as and when we find the regiments talking with cutting across climes, cultures, geographies, trends and traditions.

Be sure that he has no room. Even a drunk man may have, but he will not have as he is a Tommy. He doesn’t understand why Tommy behaves in such a way. Even if he goes for a drink to an ale-shop, the bartenders will fear serving them. They serve no red coats. The girls behind the bar giggle and laugh taking them for the Tommys. So unable to be a part of their lively gossip, chit-chats, they take to the streets, to their life, waiting to be ordered to be shifted or asked to round off or returning back to the barracks. Here a Tommy, there a Tommy, this one a Tommy, that one a Tommy. You, Tommy, go away when nothing to do with, no business to make, you Tommy, come here, come soon when there is a need of urgency as for the battle to participate, wage a war upon, give a fight-back. The life of a Tommy a Tommy can now it, feel it how their biography, autobiography, pages taken out of their life. They are talked for devotion and dedication, for loyalty. They are also for their cruel action, callous crushing of the uprising or revolt.

The poem Tommy is but a biography of the Tommys which served the empire during the World War too. But there is pathos in listening to their story of life, their uneventful upbringing, awkward schooling, boarding and pay-scale.

I went into a public 'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, " We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, go away " ;
But it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.  

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, wait outside ";
But it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide.  

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap.
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Tommy, 'ow's yer soul? "
But it's " Thin red line of 'eroes " when the drums begin to roll
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's " Thin red line of 'eroes, " when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Tommy, fall be'ind,"
But it's " Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's " Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Chuck him out, the brute! "
But it's " Saviour of 'is country " when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An 'Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!

How did they make of themselves? What did we do too? They were a butt of laughter; a butt of criticism. The men in power used when it needed. For bread and butter, for their livelihood, they fell prey to militarism and cheaper charms drew them to. It is true they kept serving the empire, how did it exploit the simpletons for their purposes?