Hillstation (26 page)

‘Off with his head,' shouted Mrs Dong.

‘Huh?' said the man with a cravat.

‘Exactly,' said Mike, clapping his hands to a steady rhythm. ‘Off with his head. Off with his head.'

Voices began to take up the chant although Mike looked less decisive, I thought, than he sounded.

‘Quality kitchenware as used for the slaying of Demonic Turtles!' announced Mr Gupta, opportunistically but somehow inappropriate.

The man with a cravat twisted his head, while he still had one, to peer at the crowd. I suspected he was looking for some assistance from his colleagues and would have been disappointed to see them on their knees begging forgiveness from anyone who cared to listen.

Sharon stood over him now, the knife raised. The man with a cravat, sweating profusely, began to pull himself across the ground, but since both Sharon and the circle moved with him, after several minutes of prodigious effort he looked up to see that he'd apparently got nowhere.

‘Do it!' shouted Mike.

Sharon smiled again. The man with a cravat lifted a hand to protect himself.

‘Ah… excuse me…' said Mr Chatterjee, stepping gingerly into the circle. ‘Before any summary decapitation occurs, I think you ought to hear what I have to say.'

One or two people groaned.

‘No, really,' said Mr Chatterjee. ‘This is most pertinent to the present circumstances, concerning as it does a conversation I had last night with a tree.'

Sharon lowered the knife and looked at him. The man with a cravat breathed out. The whole of Pushkara stood open-mouthed waiting for Mr Chatterjee to speak, a situation so contrary to his usual experience that, for once, he was unable to say anything.

‘Ah… you see… it… um…' was all he could manage before blowing his nose and grinning. Sharon ran her finger over the edge of the blade, producing a thin metallic note. The man with a cravat tried to move but found her feet on either side of his head. She bent down, grabbed his hair, forcing his chin back, and placed the blade against his throat.

‘Yes, Mr Chatterjee?' I urged. ‘You had a conversation with a tree?'

Several villagers tutted with irritation.

‘Preposterous,' said one of them.

‘If you can explain how an English dancer is able to transform into the incarnation of Shiva,' I said, ‘I'm sure Mr Chatterjee can tell us how vegetation might develop the facility of discourse.'

‘Indeed,' said Mr Chatterjee, gaining a little confidence. ‘For the one is as remarkable as the other, and today is indeed a remarkable day. Now, although I wouldn't go so far as to say that any tree, given the appropriate circumstances, would be able to strike up a conversation, though perhaps all they're waiting for is a simple “good morning, how are you today?”, nevertheless…'

‘Just tell us what it said,' said Mike impatiently.

‘Well, after we'd introduced ourselves and exchanged a few pleasantries, I thought it an opportune moment to present one or two questions,' said Mr Chatterjee. ‘Some of a philosophical nature and some, if I may say, of a more personal bent.' He blew his nose again, blushing slightly. ‘After all, though lacking, perforce, in experiences of an ambulatory nature, it may well have learned much from the observation of ours.'

‘Cut both their heads!' spluttered Mrs Dong.

‘But what did it say?' I pressed.

Mr Chatterjee froze for a moment. I nodded encouragingly.

‘It said that what we seek is before, behind, above and below us. There is nowhere that it is not,' said Mr Chatterjee.

‘Is that all?' said Mr Vaisvarya. ‘I wrote that fifty times once as a punishment.'

‘Ah, yes,' said Mr Chatterjee, ‘Clearly the tree was, in spite of its outwardly arboreal nature, well-versed in philosophical aphorisms. But when I questioned it on specifics, for instance what was meant by the slaying of the Turtle, it said “the conquest of greed”. Pressed further for elucidation, it said that the slaying is not of an individual, per se, nor indeed of a turtle, but of such personality adjuncts as arrogance, pomposity and the sheer bloody rudeness that most of you condescending bastards exhibit most of the time.' There was a shocked silence in which Mr Chatterjee also participated.

‘Shit,' said Mike. ‘She won't do it.'

Sharon's demeanour was indeed changing as she listened to Mr Chatterjee, the rapturous glow from her eyes dissolving into something more puzzled.

‘I think Shiva is leaving her,' whispered Sergeant Shrinivasan.

‘Mrs Shiver,' said Mr Chatterjee with a bow. ‘You have cupped the waters and shown us the image of ourselves: liars and cheats who would jostle their neighbours for the momentary advantage of a retail opportunity, or call wantonly for the decapitation of a stranger. All have been revealed for the selfish, conceited, pusillanimous little shits that they really are.'

‘Pusi-what?' said Mike.

‘And thus are they decapitated,' said Mr Chatterjee, blushing again, ‘according to the true import of the legend. For their heads roll on the ground, ugly and ignominious for the ants to eat and feet to kick.' He gave a little kick to demonstrate how it might be done. ‘And, as it was foretold, so the turtle of their vanity rolls dusty, kicked and ah… ant-eaten… on the ah… the ground, obviously…' I could see that he was running out of steam. ‘Where it is not so much the ants that are kicking it, though ants have more feet and thus, perhaps, the cumulative effect…'

Hendrix tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, that's great,' he said. ‘Hi Sharon.'

She stared at him.

‘Okay, not quite Sharon yet.' He looked at the man with a cravat. ‘Well now, what have we here? One lucky bugger. Thanks to this bloke…' he nodded to Mr Chatterjee, ‘you've won today's star prize: a chance to live. But don't get excited now, it's only a slim one.'

The man with a cravat snarled at him.

‘You see,' said Hendrix, ‘this lady isn't a lady at all. Of course, normally I'd smack anyone who says that, but what I mean is she's now the Lord Shiva. I know. That might raise a few questions tonight but we'll face that when we get to it. Now, we all know about Shiva, don't we? Well, I don't, to be honest, but I figure you would, being, as they say, of an Indian persuasion. Am I right or am I right?'

‘I'll have you,' hissed the man with a cravat.

‘You lose a point!' groaned Hendrix. ‘And you didn't have many to start with. So let's give you a hint. It's Hint Time, everybody. And the hint is: “Yes, Mr Hendrix, I'll do whatever you want, just please, please, don't let her cut my head off”.'

‘Ravi!' called the man with a cravat.

‘If you're looking for your boys,' said Hendrix, ‘I think you'll find they've worked out you don't mess with Shiva if you don't want her messing with you. Hey, Shiva, show him your knife.'

‘What's going on?' said Shiva. ‘Where am I?'

‘That's not Shiva,' spat the man with a cravat, though mainly to get some dust out of his mouth. ‘That's just a filthy tart.'

‘Oops,' said Hendrix, kicking him in the chest. ‘That twitch again. So let's put it another way. You're bleeding to death, and you won't last long. But the good news is: there is a Doctor, his name is Robby and, thanks to the wonders of modern medicine, he's here with us today!'

Among the indignant voices around us I could hear the words, ‘Skivvy', ‘Clinic' and ‘merely the'.

‘Now,' said Hendrix, ‘Robby could stop that bleeding with just a couple of stitches. Isn't that right, Robby?'

‘Well, yes,' I said. ‘Given the appropriate instruments. Unfortunately…'

‘We can sort that,' said Hendrix. ‘One thing at a time. But the point is he won't. Cause he doesn't like you. And even though he could easily save your life, bish bosh, he ain't gonna start 'til you get a bit nicer.'

‘That is not quite correct,' I said. ‘If I only treated people I liked there'd hardly be anyone alive in Pushkara.'

Which provoked a storm of protest though it was true and they knew it.

Hendrix chuckled. ‘Well, he might have his professional ethics, but I've got mine. And you just called my wife a tart.'

‘Oof,' said the man with a cravat.

‘But hey,' said Hendrix withdrawing his foot, ‘tick tock, time's out and if she won't chop your head off, I will. Happily.'

‘I cut it,' shrieked Mrs Dong. ‘Gimme knife. I kill all men in suits.'

‘What do you want?' said the man with a cravat.

‘The contents of your wallet,' said Hendrix. ‘Everything your boys are carrying and whatever's in the boot of your car.'

‘There's nothing in the boot of my car,' said the man with a cravat.

‘Oh, there's always something in the boot,' smiled Hendrix. ‘And I want cash wired over to the bank here, which is to say every penny you owe us for the tour plus a little extra for the inconvenience. Or you can just hand over your head. What do you say?'

‘Damn you,' said the man with a cravat.

‘Mrs Dong?' said Hendrix.

Mrs Dong seized the knife from Sharon and knelt beside the man with a cravat. Hendrix grimaced, looking away.

‘Alright,' said the man with a cravat. ‘Alright. Stop her.'

‘We got a bank here?' said Hendrix, prising the knife from Mrs Dong's fingers.

‘Of course,' said Malek. ‘The Shri Malek Bister Bank of International Deposits and Loans.'

Several voices murmured puzzlement.

‘Although it doesn't have a branch in the village as such. I am telling you this!' said Malek tartly to his disbelievers. ‘Its headquarters are in the city and you have not heard of it because it is uninterested in the puny sums you'd scrape together if you toiled your whole bloody life and saved every paise you ever earned.'

‘Okay, let's wire it over,' said Hendrix.

‘I'll need a phone,' said the man with a cravat.

‘Where's the nearest phone?' asked Hendrix.

‘There are no telephones here,' said Mr Chatterjee after a short silence. ‘Since anybody wishing to talk to anyone else has only to walk a few yards to find them. If they're not at work or at home, they'll be in the shops or at the bus stop. In any case, by the time you've found them you'll have told any number of people on the way, so they would have most likely heard it from somebody else anyway.'

‘That's if anyone's listening,' snickered someone unkindly.

‘There is such a thing,' said Sergeant Shrinivasan, ‘in my office in the police station. It is a device of a peculiar shape with the word “Telephone” written on it.'

‘Does it work?' said Mr Aptalchary, slightly shocked.

‘Extremely well,' said the Sergeant, ‘in that its primary purpose is to stop piles of paper fluttering about when the window is open.'

‘But what else does it do?' said Mike, perking up.

‘I am not sure,' said the Sergeant. ‘But once a year or so it produces a terrible jangling noise that makes me jump out of my seat. In fact, one afternoon I accidentally knocked the top bit from the bottom thing and a ghostly voice called out.' The Sergeant clutched his medals, a frequent symptom, for him, of remembered anxiety.

‘What did it say?' asked Hendrix.

‘Hello, hello, is anybody there?' recalled the Sergeant, shuddering.

‘Excuse me,' said Mrs Ginko from the other car. ‘There is an attaché case in the boot, as you predicted, with a large quantity of money in it.'

The man with a cravat sighed.

‘Okay,' said Hendrix. ‘What we need now is a lawyer so it's all done properly. I don't suppose…'

Father pushed forward in his wig and gown. ‘I am such a one,' he said, grandly. ‘As will be evident from my attire.'

‘You're the man,' said Hendrix. ‘So have a chat with this bloke here. Draw some papers up, nice and kosher. Mr Bister can sort the deposit. Then I reckon we're outta here.'

‘But is there not something else?' I said, quietly.

‘Oh yeah,' said Hendrix. ‘Patch him up. I've got some gaffer tape if you're short of the what nots.'

‘No, no, that's not what I meant,' I said. ‘It is some other business. You know?'

‘Oh yeah, how did that go?' whispered Hendrix.

‘Her knee inflicted a severe pain to my lower quarters.'

‘That's what they call an “Essex no”,' chuckled Hendrix. ‘Which kinda means what it does.'

‘But how could it be no?' I said. ‘For surely if our love is true, she would feel the same way about me as I do about her.'

‘What is this nonsense?' said Father, gruffly. ‘Not only do you make no sense as usual but you are interrupting a lawyer in the middle of earning a few bob… I mean providing invaluable counsel in matters of litigation.'

‘And if not,' I persisted, ‘what then is true? Are mountains true because they never move? Or the sky true because it never stops? What is true for one is untrue for another. And just because everyone thinks something is true, does that make it so?'

‘Well, everyone thinks you're a simpleton,' said Father. ‘And that's good enough for me. Now, to business.'

‘But they came because of me,' I protested, more stridently than intended. ‘Or at least because of the sacrificial rites performed by Pol and myself in order to summon our English wives. I must admit we didn't expect the Turtle and Shiva and all the rest of it, but the fact remains that our importunings brought them here, and whether everything, anything or nothing is true they cannot leave until our pledge is fulfilled.'

Although it was difficult to pin-point any single rebuke among the shouting that followed, I did gather, in general terms, that I wasn't entirely popular with much of the village. However, I also began to pick up some discordant voices, mainly among the younger men, who seemed to be chanting the word, ‘Rabindra!'