Tiger Hills (15 page)

Machu shook his head in amazement. “You really are a handful. What rice does your mother feed you that you are so willful?”

Devi tossed her braid at him and started up the stairs.

“Fine,” he said, “as you wish.”

Was he really going to let her go alone? Devi turned around in
alarm, but he was bounding up the steps behind her. “If you want to go, well, then I suppose we will have to.” He gripped her forearm in one large hand. “However,” he promised grimly, “it will be the quickest journey up and back that anyone has ever made.”

He drove them at a punishing pace, Devi's toes barely touching one step before she was leaping toward the next. She was soon gasping for air, the muscles in her calves throbbing with pain, but she gritted her teeth and stayed silent.

He let go of her when they reached the top and she turned on him. “You, you … ,” she gasped, trying to catch her breath. “You purposely … ” She panted furiously as she rubbed her arm. Machu stared down at her red, indignant face, and his mouth began to twitch. A dimple appeared in one cheek and then he burst out laughing.

“What is there to laugh about?” Devi spluttered. “You, you … ” Then she, too, started to laugh.

Later that evening, Thimmaya turned to look at his daughter. What a fright she had given him this morning. He should have known she would be fine, he supposed; after all, she was hardly a child anymore. The setting sun filtered through the bamboo weave of the bullock cart, gilding the high ridge of a cheekbone, glossing the dark wing of hair that tumbled about her shoulders. He sighed. Where had the years flown? It seemed like only yesterday that he had held her in his arms for the first time. A mere scrap of a baby she had been, light as a whisker.

He knew they talked behind his back in the village; he loved his daughter too much, they said, adored her so much he was loath to see her leave for her husband's home. Did they not see how anxious he was to see his daughter happily wed before he, too, followed Muthavva? He would find her someone truly worthy, a veritable prince. Was there another daughter as lovely, as dutiful and accomplished as his golden child? Nobody would do for her but the strongest, bravest lad in all of Coorg. From a family as sturdy as a jungle tree, rooted for generations in the history of this land.

Devi stirred in her sleep. “Go a little carefully, Tukra,” Thimmaya chided. “Must you aim for every pothole along the way?” He pulled the blanket higher around Devi and then, setting himself to the matter at hand, turned to Devanna, who had decided to travel back with them to the Pallada village.

“Tell me, monae,” he asked softly, so as not to wake Devi, “this cousin of yours, Machaiah, he seems like a well-brought-up lad. No parents, that's what he told me. Do you know if he owns any land?”

He quizzed Devanna until satisfied with Machaiah's antecedents, then settled himself against the wall of the cart. “You are a good child, monae,” he said affectionately, patting Devanna on his shoulder. “Truly like a son to me. My second son.”

He yawned sleepily as he looked out of the cart. Kambeymada Machaiah.
Muthavva, you would approve,
he thought, smiling to himself.
A tiger killer for our child. I believe he is interested too, why wouldn't he be? He has said he will visit us soon.
Thimmaya yawned again and shut his eyes.

The light faded and the first stars appeared. There was silence in the cart, broken only by the thunking of the wooden bells about the necks of the bulls and the soft “Har-ra … Har-ra … ” from Tukra as he urged the oxen forward.

Devanna stared unhappily at the gathering dusk.
My son,
Thimmaya anna had called him. His second son. All the while asking him questions about Machu anna. Did Devanna think Machu would make a good match for Devi? Would he make a good husband?

Devanna had been too taken aback to do anything but nod. He would be the one to marry Devi, no one else, he had wanted to protest to Thimmaya. Hadn't the whole village said, right from the time that Devi and he were little, that the two of them were inseparable? Like the skin of an orange and its pith, they used to say, that was how close they were, like a grain of rice and its husk. Why should it change now that they were older?

They had not talked about it of course, Devi and he … some things did not need to be said aloud. At least that was what Devanna had always believed. When Tayi complained to him about Devi turning down yet another proposal,
talk some sense into her head, Devanna,
inwardly Devanna would smile. Crotchety she may be toward him—and thoughtless and irresponsible, he thought, frowning slightly at the memory of her shenanigans at the temple tank—but he knew Devi was waiting for him.

At least nothing would come of an alliance with Machu anna, he thought, still troubled. He had seen with his own eyes, how pert she had been with the poor man today on the mountain. It had been the same at the tiger wedding all those years ago. So inexplicably rude she had been then, and again today … It would never happen, Machu anna and her. That tongue of hers, it could cut deep.

All he needed was some time. He would finish his studies, be able to stand on his own feet. “Harr-ra … Harr-ra … ” Tukra murmured, urging the bulls faster, the wooden bells about their necks clacking in the dusk. Devanna's shoulders gradually relaxed. A little more time, that was all … Absently, silently, he began to recite the names of his beloved books in his head, in time to the bells.
Flo-ra Sylvatica. Flo-ra Indica. Spi-cile-gium Neilgherrense. Icones Plantarum. Hor-tus Bengalensis. Hortus Cal-cut-tensis. Pro-dro-mus Flo-rae. Pe-nin-sulae Indicae.

The memory of Thimmaya's words cut abruptly through his reverie.
You are truly like a son to me, monae,
he had said.
My son.

All rational thought, all reasoning, was pushed suddenly from Devanna's mind, a strange foreboding raising the hair on his arms. He turned toward the sleeping Devi. “You are mine,” he mouthed emphatically. “Mine. I am
not
your
brother
.”

Chapter 10

Y
our lemon soda, sir,” the bearer repeated patiently. Gundert looked up with a start. “Yes, thank you, Chimma,” he said, lifting the glass from the tray. The bearer smiled, revealing a row of startlingly white teeth, before melting back into the shadows of the club. Gundert pressed the cool glass to his forehead and sighed inwardly as he looked around once more at the gathering.

The day had not gone as anticipated. The response to his letter had come that afternoon, along with the usual piles of mission correspondence and last month's issue of the
Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft
. Gundert had immediately spotted the college crest on the envelope, the lion rearing upon the shield, bearing in its paws the scepter of knowledge
“Lucet et Ardet,”
he read under his breath.
It Shines and It Burns.
He had balanced the letter in his palm, gauging its heft, trying to judge from its weight the nature of the words within.

Gundert had written to Father Dunleavy, the Dean of the Bangalore Medical College, a month earlier. He had introduced himself, citing common acquaintances within the Church.

He was writing, he explained, on behalf of his star pupil, Kambeymada Devanna. The boy was gifted with uncommon intelligence and a diligence of spirit that routinely evaded men twice his age. He came from impeccable lineage, a landed family that traced
back through many illustrious generations, and although he was neither born nor yet baptized a Christian, Gundert would personally vouch for his character and the strength of his moral fiber. The boy had sailed through the mission school with an exemplary academic record. It was clearly evident that he was ordained for larger things than a mere apprenticeship with the local government. “Devanna is well suited to the medical profession,” wrote Gundert. “Indeed, in all my years in this country, never have I happened across anyone as suited as he to enter the portals of your esteemed institution.” He had ended the letter with a modest postscript. He was enclosing, he wrote, a paper authored by him on the commonalities of the Sanskrit language with Latin; he had heard that the Father was an enthusiastic polyglot, and he hoped that the enclosed paper would be of some interest to him.

Gundert had carried the letter with him to the chapel for morning Mass before he sent it in the post, going over the carefully worded paragraphs a dozen times in his head even after the letter had gone. It had been the perfect pitch; he had built a strong case, he knew, and the only thing he could do now was wait.

Smoothing Father Dunleavy's long-awaited response on his lap, he began to read. Of course he had heard about the Reverend, Dunleavy had responded. If Devanna came recommended from someone as erudite as he, the Bangalore Medical College would be fortunate to have him enrolled as one of its students.

However, Dunleavy continued, he believed he had an even better idea. The boy's academic prowess seemed remarkable. Had Gundert considered England? Why not apply to Oxford? Dunleavy was sure he would pass the examinations with some coaching. Additionally, wrote Dunleavy, the Vice Chancellor was a personal friend, and he would be happy to write him a letter of recommendation on Devanna's behalf. “Intellects of the caliber you say he possesses are few and far between,” he wrote, “and are the beacons of our efforts on behalf of the Church here in India. While I would be privileged to have Devanna study here in our college, I believe we would be doing him far more justice by sending him to the hallowed grounds of Oxford itself.”

Gundert's face remained impassive as he read through the letter, only a small tic jumping in his cheek. He reread the letter twice and then carefully folded it and slipped it into its envelope. The mission cat jumped into his lap and Gundert absently stroked her fur as he sat lost in thought.

England. He had never even considered the possibility. There had always been, in his mind, a clear path for Devanna to tread. After graduating at the top of his class from the mission school, he would go on to study at the finest medical college in the South. Returning as a doctor to the mission, he would then be baptized. Here he would stay, by Gundert's side, using his profession and the respect it would accord him among the Coorgs to convince them also to convert to the Christian calling.

It had all worked well—almost too well, it would seem. Dunleavy's response had been far better than he had hoped. England. Gundert knew what a tremendous opportunity it represented. And yet, a little voice reasoned in his head, was it truly required? Where was the necessity for Devanna to be gone all those years, across all that distance, when he could be a mere carriage ride away in Bangalore? Besides, even if he were to go to England, it was not as if he was headed for one of the large cities, Madras or Bombay or Calcutta, even, upon his return. No, Devanna would return here to the mission, back to tiny Coorg after he completed his studies. And, realistically speaking, how much medical pedigree was truly needed here?

You know it would be an honor beyond reckoning for the boy's family,
another voice pointed out.
A doctor, educated in England. You have to let them make the final decision.

But to send him so far. What if something were to befall him? A change of heart, a dire illness, what if something were to tear Devanna away from him? Olaf … No, thought Gundert, the long-buried stench of the Madras hospital oozing clammily from his pores, he would not,
could not,
withstand it again.

He had gone about his day with his usual efficiency, but by the time evening had come around, a headache tugged dully at his temples. The letter lay in his pocket, weighing him down as he had made his way to the Mercara Planters Club for the fortnightly game of billiards.

He was in no mood to attend, but Gundert knew the import of social visibility. How else would the funding be arranged for the newspaper press the mission had established in Mysore or the permits for the land in South Coorg? So, donning his whitest cassock and turning on his charm, Gundert attended the dos at the Club, accepted the invitations for lawn tennis parties, and made a point of dancing at least one graceful waltz with the Resident's daughter at the annual ball held in the Mercara Fort.