Hillstation (11 page)

He stopped abruptly as Malek Bister, close behind, swung his foot sharply into the gloom of the open doorway.

‘You're kidding me,' said Sharon.

‘Huh?' said Mike, fishing for his hankie.

‘The tour's off, the tour's on, the tour's just crawled up its own backside, I ask the Producer if he's taking the piss putting us on in this bloody shack and all he can say is, “Huh?”.'

Cindy finished twirling and ran up to the entrance. ‘I don't think it's so bad,' she said.

‘Well maybe some people are lucky to be dancing anywhere,' said Sharon.

‘Miaow,' said Cindy, giggling.

‘Sorry to butt in,' said Hendrix. ‘Only I get this buzzing now and then, in my ears, cause of the noise, you know, over the years. But I was just wondering, can anyone else hear that?'

Now that he mentioned it, there was a definite rumble coming from somewhere.

‘Earthquake?' said Hendrix.

‘Not here,' I said.

‘Return of the Turtle?'

But I didn't think so. Sergeant Shrinivasan unhooked his cane from the back of the jeep. Sharon popped a piece of chewing gum into her mouth and marched towards the hall. Martina joined Mike who was mopping his forehead.

‘Maybe you want to be straight for once,' she said, ‘and tell us what's going on.'

‘I thought you could work it out,' said Mike.

‘You're not saying it had anything to do with Bombay?' said Martina.

‘I don't know, what do you think?' said Mike.

‘They didn't cancel for that, come on.'

Mike shrugged mysteriously and strolled towards the doors.

‘Mike?' said Martina.

‘Listen Marty,' he said, turning briefly. ‘You made your choice. Okay? And that's no problem. It's your choice. Now you can tell the others or not but don't talk to me about straight.'

He had to raise his voice now over the rapidly growing noise of indeterminate rumbling.

‘Everybody inside!' shouted Sergeant Shrinivasan as the first of the mob tumbled round the bend.

Mike stuffed the hankie back in his pocket. ‘Marty, Brendan,' he said. ‘Let's go.'

Sergeant Shrinivasan tapped the cane in his hand. I noticed that Mr Kapri was in the vanguard, in spite of the fact that he was now carrying three ornamental tables with an extra five strapped to his back.

‘Please,' shouted the Sergeant. ‘You must run for your lives!'

Martina turned towards the hall, took a few steps and tripped on her heels, crumbling like a broken kite, her foot twisting horribly. I knelt down, clutching her hand. Even without my book I could see that her ankle was badly fractured.

‘Go,' she said.

‘And leave you?' I said. ‘But we have so much to talk about. There are the arrangements for one thing. I need to speak to your father, and you to mine, though in the latter instance I can foresee one or two complications.'

‘There is no time,' she winced. ‘Rabindra, you have to save yourself.'

I gently brushed the hair from her forehead.

‘Oh my love,' she sobbed, looking towards the frenzied crowd hurtling towards us, ‘I fear that we are lost.'

‘No matter if we are together,' I said, as a sack of carrots landed beside me.

I stood up straight, buttons popping from the unexpected swell of my chest, one of them flicking into the eye of the first assailant who, temporarily blinded, sunk to his knees. With a mighty bound I leapt over his head, decapitating him on the way, and plunged into the melée, a blood-crazed thing of righteous destruction, thrusting here, slashing there, scrambling over the rapidly swelling pile of amputations, tracheotomies and even a couple of nifty circumcisions. But the more I slashed and skewered, the more they came at me: Pushkara's deadliest assassins, hungry for blood. And though the air was loud with the cries of dying, and the ground beneath me a slippery mire of severed limbs and slithering entrails, I knew it was hopeless. A chance blow knocked the breath out of me. I slew my adversary but the damage was done. I had faltered, they had flung themselves, and in that moment a thousand blades, cudgels and upholstery mallets rained upon me. I had only seconds to live, a few brief moments of glory before the darkness engulfed me forever. With the last shred of strength in my bones, I gazed once more into the eyes of my beloved.

‘Are you alright?' said Martina.

‘Sorry? Ah, yes, of course. Perfectly alright, thank you.' I looked round. Mr Kapri had stumbled, dropping some of his tables as the first ranks fell over him.

‘I think we can leave them to the Sergeant,' said Martina.

It seemed to me that the scenario I had just imagined would have ended the day rather beautifully in spite of my absence from its epilogue. But what happened next was more testing, perhaps, than even the prospect of death. As I followed Martina towards the hall, I became aware of a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of a nearby tree. Normally, of course, I would have found that merely pleasurable but on this occasion it struck me as odd. The village had fallen silent once more and this, I knew by now, was never a good thing. Every sinew in my body wanted to carry on towards the hall except the one that turned my head to look back. A group of elders was pushing its way to the front. These included Mr Gingalarmakrshnamukpadawaya, in the black robes and mortar board which, at one time or another, had terrified most of the people in the village; Mrs Vasayabhni of the Pushkara Archaeological Institute complete with sun hat and spade; and Mr Ghosh from the Pushkara Civil Service who was always smartly presented in pin-striped suit and bowler hat though what he usefully did on a daily basis was anyone's guess. And finally, my Father, replete with gown and wig.

‘Rabindranath!' he shouted. ‘You will come here, now.'

Hendrix looked out from the hall. ‘What's up?' he said.

I pointed to my father.

‘Should I moon him?' said Hendrix.

‘Would that be useful?' I asked.

‘No!' said Martina.

‘Rabindranath,' said my Father again, ‘I do not expect to have to repeat myself and yet already I am doing so. What I have said before and what I am saying again is that you will come here now!'

I could hear the leaves tremble, Martina breathing softly beside me. The sun twirled diamonds on the ends of my lashes as the ground pressed up through the soles of my feet. The hall, with its sweet shade, beckoned my aching spirit. But Father's brows were knotted to a single throb of fury, his bulging eyes calling me back to my duty, my fear, my other self, the Clinic Skivvy, good only for lancing boils and mopping up, a penance for some ancient crime the memory of which, if not the consequences, had long since faded. And though I had gazed into the eyes of my betrothed in that earlier, imaginary battle, I could not look at them now.

5

Dev delicately placed a tea
cup on the table beside him and leaned back in his armchair, rustling a copy of the
Pushkara Daily Gazette
. His body language, as ever, was inscrutable. After a moment, Father ushered in my sisters, waving them to the sofa where they sat, hugging each other.

‘Malek Bister and his unspeakable son!' Father began, thumbs hooked into his waistcoat pockets. ‘This you would expect of them. For what is their nature but to cheapen and soil, tarnish and despoil?' He paused to savour the resonance. ‘But do not think that I am prejudiced.' He looked around, daring us. ‘After all, is it my prerogative to decide who comes into being and with what nature they are graced or afflicted as the case may be?'

‘Yes, Father,' said one of my sisters helpfully.

‘Well, no it isn't,' said Father. ‘That's the point. You see?'

She nodded nervously and glanced at my other sister.

‘We all have our part to play in this glorious pageant of the universe,' continued Father. ‘Which is the first point. The second is that, although some people are a disgrace to themselves and, if I may say,' he raised an eyebrow in my direction, ‘to all with whom they come into contact, nevertheless their existence is a fact. The gods, whom we do not question, decided to create the Bisters. We must therefore learn to accept this, even if their reasons are difficult to construe. It is the same with boils and bunions.' He nodded to Dev. ‘Nobody celebrates their existence. And, given the occurrence of one or more of these, a visit might be necessitated to my son who has been to England and is a Doctor.' He smiled. ‘But what we cannot do is berate the heavens for our discomfort. Unsightly as they are and, as I know from personal experience, painful at times, they are to be endured with patience and equanimity even if, ultimately, it is our intention to lance the little bastards until they afflict us no more.' He took a breath. ‘And so, what we have before us are the ah… clear and cogent facts, unarguably assembled, ladies and gentlemen, in such a way as to leave no… vestige of a doubt as to the veracity of these deliberations nor of the… constructive interpretation extrapolated from the ah…' He flushed slightly, glancing down for notes he didn't have on a table that wasn't there.

‘But you wouldn't expect it from your own son?' I offered.

‘Indeed, yes,' said Father, ‘I am grateful to my learned… don't interrupt me! This is obviously the proposition I am coming to.'

My sisters scowled at me. Father cleared his throat.

‘I would indeed not expect it from my own blood, my progeny, the very fruits, as it were, of my loins.'

My sisters hid their faces.

‘Behold your brother,' said Father, pointing at Dev. ‘And all that he has done with his life. His bearing, the fine brows and aristocratic neck. That is not by luck. That is from hard work over many lifetimes. Now, you may grumble to your sisters about some cosmic oversight by which you were born second…'

My sisters looked away guiltily.

‘But you are wrong. And it is in your wrongness that you are born second, that you are irrevocably stupid and that you consort with those who, though indisputably unsavoury, are nevertheless more akin to your sensibilities than the family to which you might otherwise belong.'

My sisters were glaring at me now with palpable pleasure. But I had heard it all before.

‘I do not ask you to be like your brother.' He shook his head contemplating the futility of such a wish. ‘But I do expect you to behave like a Sharma. A second-rate Sharma, but a Sharma for all that.'

‘I am not aware, Father,' I said, ‘how I might have displeased you.'

‘Might have?' sighed Father with the tragic air of one struggling with unearned familial vicissitudes. ‘Mahadev, show him.'

Dev put the paper down, reached behind the armchair and drew out a large flat book bound with a metal coil. He glanced at it, raised his eyebrows and tossed it across the table.

For a moment the breath stopped in my body. Even fixed in the static mirage of an image she was beautiful, her tanned body stretched languidly across a bed of crimson petals, one hand toying with a lock of hair, the other reaching back to the amber light that danced across her skin. By good fortune, a silken cloth had fallen across her breasts, while a posy of blossoms delicately sheltered that which no eyes but mine should see. She shifted slightly, smiling up at me. ‘Rabindra,' she sighed, ‘through forests and deserts have I journeyed in search of you, but we are together now, for I have found you at last.'

Father snatched it from me. ‘That's enough,' he spluttered. ‘Read the text. Go on. What does it say?' He shook it, blurring the letters. ‘What was the first lesson hammered into your recalcitrant skull by the finest professor in all of Pushkara, Mr Gingalarmakrshnamukpadawaya? Hmm? Or was he wasting his breath? Did you slouch in every morning, complaining under your satchel, for nothing?'

‘Wash your hands before eating?' I offered.

‘Well, yes, okay,' said Father. ‘The second lesson.'

‘Read the text before you look at the pictures,' said Dev.

‘Exactly,' said Father, smiling at Dev. ‘Once again your brother has demonstrated his impeccable retention of imparted knowledge.'

‘‘Heaven's Blessings',' I read. ‘World Tour, South East Asia. Official Calendar.'

‘January,' grunted Father, flinging the front page back.

Martina was arm in arm with Cindy, her swimsuit an elaborate concoction of threads and triangles matching the delicate grey-blue of her eyes. Cindy's broad smile gave a whimsical hue to the coquettish pose of her lilac one-piece.

‘Perhaps,' I said, ‘we could hang this in the waiting room for all those people who don't seem to know what day of the week it is.'

Dev spat out his tea.

‘February,' hissed Father, jabbing at it. ‘Go on.'

I turned the page. Against a frozen background of gnarled trees Martina stood in a heavy trench-coat, one leg revealing the top edge of a black lace garter.

‘March,' said Father.

Sharon pouted from a poolside sun-bed.

I reached for April but Father slammed his hand on the calendar. ‘No child of mine is going to see what happened in April,' he said.

‘Where does this come from?' I asked.

‘From the bowels of iniquity,' intoned Father, making my sisters gasp.

‘Sergeant Shrinivasan's selling them from the police station,' said Dev.

‘So let me ask you a simple question,' said Father, puffing his chest and gazing at the ceiling. ‘Did we talk yesterday?'

‘Ah, yes, I think so.'

‘Good. Very good. So your recollections extend to yesterday. Perhaps not a lot further but let's be grateful. Now, let me ask you another question. You might have to think about this but don't take too long. In the course of the aforesaid mentioned conversation, were you or were you not given an instruction?'

‘Probably,' I said.

‘Excellent. I must write to your teacher to say that his labours were not entirely wasted.' He smiled menacingly. ‘The next question is a little more difficult. Can you tell me, to the best of your recollection, what was the nature of that instruction?'

‘Ah… not to be seen…?'

‘Is that a guess,' asked Father, ‘Or something you actually recall?'

‘A bit of both,' I said.

‘Alright. That will serve. And can you suggest, perhaps, why you might have been given that instruction?'

‘Um. No, sorry, I can't.'

‘That is a good answer,' he said. ‘You do not have to know why I do or do not give instructions. It matters only that you follow them.'

‘Which is what I was attempting to do,' I said. ‘Father, believe me.'

‘So let me see if I understand this correctly.' He turned to the window, a classic trick of the advocate about to land the clincher. ‘In your efforts not to be seen, you pranced like a buffoon on the steps of the Hotel Nirvana. You then transported yourself by means of a car with flashing lights and blaring sirens, in the interests of discretion, naturally, to the forecourt of that wretched so-called hall where you proceeded to parade yourself in the company of a lady who poses indelicately for everyone to ogle, waiting for the whole of Pushkara to turn up. Now, this is an extremely simple question but I suggest you answer it carefully.' He turned to me, blade raised, cloth rippling. ‘How exactly did you think this would lead to you not being seen?'

‘Perhaps it wasn't the best way to go about it,' I said, ‘but…'

‘No buts,' he said firmly. ‘Either you are seen or you are not seen. So which do you think you were? Seen or not seen?'

‘I'm not sure,' I said playing the stupidity card which, after all, was largely expected of me. ‘It is possible that on one or two occasions during the period in question I might have been not unseen, as it were.'

My sisters began to sob.

‘Alright,' said Father, pondering my response as a doctor might some liquid against the light. ‘So when you say that you were “not unseen”, are we to understand that, in your opinion, you were, as they say, “seen”?'

‘Yes, possibly,' I said.

‘In direct contravention of the instruction that you had been given?'

‘Um. I suppose so.'

‘You suppose so?'

‘I know so.'

‘Aha,' said Father. ‘That's interesting. Very interesting indeed.' He began to stroll in circles chuckling to himself in a way that suggested he'd forgotten what he'd been driving at.

‘The elders,' prompted Dev.

‘Quite so,' said Father. ‘Thank you. Now, let it be known that, in the light of a general air of disobedience afflicting the least responsible among us, one of whom is, indeed, among us, the elders have met. And having met they have, of course, deliberated.'

‘About what?' I said, feeling my blood slow. ‘Me?'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' Father scoffed. ‘Do you think we have nothing better to talk about than the prurient misdemeanours of a Clinic Skivvy?'

‘Pol?' I suggested.

‘Well, yes in a way,' said Father. ‘But look here, it's none of your business what was discussed. What matters is what we decided.' He smoothed the folds of the wig he wasn't wearing and lifted his chin to its most declamatory thrust. ‘After proper consideration of the facts and full deliberation thereon, it has hereby been decreed by a Colloquy of the Elders of Pushkara, that there will be no performance of dance, international or otherwise, at this whatever it's called, this “hall” in the foreseeable future. Moreover, anyone who might have arrived for said purpose will be asked to leave with immediate effect if not sooner. All copies, meanwhile, of this… tawdry publication will be recovered from those who so inelegantly rushed over to the police station as soon as they heard about it, their respective parents determining individual punitive measures at their discretion. Moreover and in the meantime, all male citizens under the age of forty three are confined to their houses until such time as the Elders declare otherwise.'

‘But Father,' I interjected, a bead of cold sweat tickling down from my armpit, ‘are there not people from England who have arrived only recently for the very purpose of engaging in dancing activities?'

‘No exceptions,' said Father with ominous finality.

‘And do we not have a considerable fondness for people from England simply because they are from England?' I continued. ‘In respect of which we could waive some of the terms of the edict to accommodate them. After all, do we not celebrate their cultural excellence in myriad ways? The flag in Dev's room…'

‘Mahadev,' corrected Father.

‘… The Heritage Edition British Rail place mats we get out for Diwali, the double-decker bus biscuit tin, my very own red pillar-box key-ring and the picture of my revered brother standing shoulder to shoulder with that nation's most illustrious monarch? How many times has he enthralled us with his tales? And how many times have we begged him for more? Of the great park where serpents hide from Peter's frying pan? Or the one-eyed fakir gazing down from his column on the battle of Trafalgar while pigeons nest on his head? Have we not marvelled at the Palace of Buckingham with a household so large they need horses to get from one end to the other? And was it not in England that my revered brother became the very Doctor whose efforts we all live on since your legal practice in Allahabad failed and you couldn't find any work?'

‘Our decision is final,' roared Father. ‘These so-called people from England are required to leave immediately on receipt of said declaration. If they refuse, they shall be driven out by force if necessary. They shall be lanced like a boil, sliced like a bunion, extracted like a septic tooth, amputated like a… a gangrenous limb, swabbed like some… sort of…'

Though he was obviously running thin on metaphors I felt no inclination to help.

‘… whatever. Anyway. In the meantime, according to the edict and with respect to your age, it would seem that you are henceforth confined to the house,' he concluded, bending to collect his papers and straightening his trousers instead since there weren't any.

‘But what about the clinic?' I said.

‘Closed until further notice,' said Father looking at Dev who nodded back. ‘That is my final word.'

Father's rage continued, however, to erupt intermittently over supper.

‘Would you pass me another
roti
?' he'd say. ‘The shame of it! My own son! And some chutney, please, if you wouldn't mind.'

My sisters had gone to bed early and Father was on curfew duty when I found Dev in his room reading the
Daily Gazette
. It was always an occasion for the village when its proprietor got around to printing an edition. In our house, by family custom, Dev would always get the first read.