Tiger Hills (19 page)

His resoluteness, the resignation with which he executed Martin's every command, only served to fuel Martin's anger. His directives became ever more punitive, directly targeted at Devanna until all the hostel knew that for some reason, Thomas had it in for the chokra freshman.

Devanna had not risen promptly enough from the dining table to offer Martin his seat.

“No, Martin,” Devanna agreed evenly.

“Two hundred sit-ups.”

“Yes.”

He hadn't been able to complete them, of course, and Martin had drawn back his leg and kicked him with such force that Devanna had buried his teeth in his lips to keep from crying out loud. He was bleeding, he realized then with a frisson of shock; there was the salty, mineral taste of blood in his mouth. A bruise was slowly blossoming on his skin where Martin's boot had landed. Beneath it, a septic bitterness, beginning slowly to pool.

The thrill of pleasure as his boot connected with Devanna's skin remained sharply etched in Martin's mind, and the next morning he confronted Devanna again. Devanna had not wished Martin a good morning. Anger flared inside Devanna at the unfairness of this accusation, but he struggled to keep it from his voice. “You've only just entered the mess, Martin,” he pointed out reasonably, “and my back was to the door.”

That bit of snotty back talk earned him a box on the ears. He would have to polish all of Martin's boots, right now, pronto.

“Yes.”

His boots were not polished to an adequate shine, Martin shouted, as he laid into Devanna with his fists. Chokra bastard! Devanna would now have to lick them clean. Had Devanna heard him?

“Y … yes … ” Devanna had barely been able to speak from the pain.

“Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full. Can't you say anything else, faggot? Are you a sheep or a man?”

“I—”

“You know what I think, fag? I think you need to be taught how to be a man.” Martin's face creased into an oily grin. “Grab him,” he shouted to his sidekicks, and they hoisted Devanna off his feet. They lifted him to the hostel windows and—“Careful, now, the bugger's sweaty as hell”—they held Devanna upside down over the ledge. He swung there, the blood rushing heavy to his head, fingers scrabbling in the air as the seniors held him by his ankles, hooting and jeering. “Are you a man yet, faggot? Are you?”

Devanna barely made it to the bathrooms before vomiting up his dinner, continuing to retch into the sink long after his stomach was empty. “It's ragging,” he told himself that night. He lay stiff, waiting under the blankets, ears pricked for the door to slam open once more, bloody maggots, out of bed with you, you heard us,
now.
“It's only ragging, take it like a man.”

Martin began to heap ever more punishments on him, willing him to crack, to crumble into pieces. He didn't like the way Devanna had combed his hair that morning. “Choose,” he told Devanna, swinging the hockey stick and the cricket bat in front of him.

Devanna pointed to the cricket bat.

“Bend over, bend over then, chokra. So,” Martin continued affably, “which shot do you prefer? Hook shot or defensive?”

The instinctive squeezing together of his knees, trying to keep from trembling. “Defensive.” It was the gentler shot.

Martin nodded. “Good choice. Defensive it is.”

Eyes shut, waiting tensely for the shot to fall across his thighs and buttocks. And then the bat came crashing down upon him with such force that he was propelled forward onto his face. “Would you look at that, fresher, I changed my mind. Had to go with the hook shot after all, felt like stretching my arms.”

The days began to lump together in a haze. Devanna withdrew into himself, a silent figure standing resolutely in front of his tormentor no matter what the latter put him through. Chanting the names of the old, beloved books in his head to take his mind away from what was being done to him:

Flora Sylvatica. Flora Indica. Spicilegium Neilgherrense. Icones Plantarum. Hortus Bengalensis. Hortus Calcuttensis. Prodromus Florae. Peninsulae Indicae.

Flora Sylvatica. Flora Indica…

He started suffering from nightmares, bolting awake in the middle of the night; to his shame, sometimes with his cheeks damp from tears he had no recollection of having shed.
It's only ragging,
he told himself,
it means nothing,
but every beating he suffered at Martin's hands, each naked debasement, began to stoke within him a poisonous, bewildered rage.

A few of the first years reached out in overt sympathy, nudging him awake when he dozed off in class because he had been kept up all night, slipping anonymous sheaves of notes into his desk after yet another class missed because he was in the infirmary having
tincture applied to his bruises. For the most part, however, they gave him a wide berth, terrified of Martin's wrath. Keep your chin up, they muttered to him in the dormitories, there are only three months left until the Freshers Ball.

The nurse in the infirmary shook her head each time Devanna limped in, pursing her lips when he mumbled that he had walked into a door again. Finally, she went to the doctor with her suspicions. Father Dunleavy called Devanna into his office, noting the contusions on his arms. What was going on? He heard rumors, of course, of ragging, but surely that was all in good spirit? He had his suspicions, there was that boy who had broken his nose two years ago, how in God's name does anyone walk into a wall? But how was he to mete out a suitable punishment when nobody stood accused? Walking into walls and doors indeed. Had his students suddenly gone soft in the head?

He steepled his fingers and looked at Devanna, his kindly eyes clouded with concern. Was there something else he should be aware of, something to do with Martin Thomas and his friends perhaps?

“No,” Devanna said, “nobody is to blame.

“Please, Father,” he added, “say nothing of this to the Reverend, he will only worry. I … I've been clumsy of late, that's all.”

Devanna also remained silent on his ordeal in his long letters home. What could he say, after all, how could he even begin to describe the things that were being done to him? It was only ragging, and he had to take it like a man. He wrote pages and pages to Gundert, describing his classes in meticulous detail. When could the Reverend visit? He penned long, meandering letters to Devi, telling her about Bangalore and the fortnightly outings they were taken on.

Two weeks earlier it had been the theater. “How you would have laughed to see the man who played the role of the heroine,” he wrote. “He had an especially large Adam's apple and every time he sang falsetto, it seemed to grow even larger.” This week, they had gone to the Botanical Gardens. “The gardens belonged to Tipu Sultan, yes, that same Tipu of Mysore who so infamously
tried to slash his way through Coorg. How he managed to produce something so beautiful … You should see the gardens, Devi. They are managed by experts brought in especially from Kew Gardens no less. The new herbarium is the spitting image, they say, of the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park.” He described the masters and the dour librarian, and the decorous English breakfasts of soft-boiled eggs, toast, and (watery) tea.

“Will you write to me?” he asked wistfully. “Once in a while, just a few lines?”

The first years counted fervently down to the Freshers Ball as Martin grew increasingly obsessed with Devanna. He had become, for Martin, the itch that had to be scratched, sometimes three or four times a day.

Martin had fumbled with an answer in class that morning. “Chokra. Get over here.”

His cow of a mother had sent him another of her letters, asking why he didn't write more often, had he forgotten all she had sacrificed, her marriage, her looks, everything, just so he could be where he was today? Guilt creeping over his skin like an army of black ants, where, WHERE was that chokra fucking fresher?

“Fucking maggot bugger,” he would mutter later, massaging his tender knuckles.

It gave him a fierce, spine-tingling thrill, the hatred stamped in Devanna's eyes, the impotent anger. Still, it wasn't enough. He wanted the chokra to … to …
fall
at his feet, perhaps, to plead to be left alone, please Martin, I
beg
you, please.

He halted Devanna in the corridor one morning. Devanna's heart sank. “Good morning, Martin.” Martin said nothing, just cracked his knuckles and stared broodingly at him.

“Martin,” Devanna tried again, trying to keep his voice even. “I need to get to class, may I … ” He gestured past Martin at the first years hurrying along, eyes fixed firmly to the ground. “I need to get to class,” he repeated. Martin said nothing. “Excuse me,”
Devanna said and, not sure what else to do, started to walk away.

Martin shot out his arm, blocking his way. “Such little respect,” he murmured. “I was talking to you and you just walk away. And here I am, a senior.”

He turned. “No classes for you today, chokra. I will see you in my room. Now.”

Devanna stood in the middle of the room as Martin's chums lounged curiously against the walls.

Martin walked slowly up and down, not even looking at Devanna. “So little respect,” he said quietly, picking up the ulna bone that lay on his study table. The second years were in the midst of anatomy lessons and there was a plethora of bones to be found in each of their rooms. Martin caressed the bone, running his fingers over its calcified surface, from proximal to distal end, gently probing the extremities and then slowly back again. The hairs rose on Devanna's neck.

Martin shook his head, and then suddenly becoming brisk, he turned. “You leave me no choice. Drop your pants, chokra. Drop your pants and bend over.”

Devanna sat huddled on the library floor in the musty anthropology nook. This part of the library was always quiet and deserted. Besides, the rest of the first years were still in class. He sat on the cold floor, hugging his knees to his chest, trying not to shake. “Nothing happened,” he said to himself, over and over. “NOTHING happened.”

Flora Sylvatica. Flora Indica.

The bile rose in his throat and he swallowed hard. “Stop it. STOP IT.” Cold, he was so cold … He began to rock back and forth, his arms wrapped tightly about himself, and the back of his head connected with the library wall. The dull pain of impact, the solidity of the bricks behind him was strangely comforting. He mechanically hit his head against the wall once more, then again.
Thud. Thud.

He shut his eyes, willing himself away from the nightmare of
the past hours, far from here. The paddy flats of the Nachimanda village. Coorg-Devanna.

Thud.

Thud.

Pain blossomed forth from the center of his forehead, like an orange-petaled flower. Coorg-Devanna, back at the mission. The Pallada village. Look, the grass. Springing beneath his toes. The smell of her hair, a fresh, hibiscus smell.

Devi.

Close they had been, ever since he could remember, like two eggs in a nest.

Chapter 13

D
evi laboriously read every one of Devanna's letters, word by word, translating them for Pallada Nayak, Tayi, and Thimmaya. She saved them all, storing them in the felt-lined box where Muthavva's jewels were kept.

She read them aloud to Machu, too, when he came secretly to visit, unable to withstand the separation, drawn against every ounce of his will to her side. They met that first time in the hollows by the paddy fields. It was late in the afternoon and the fields were deserted. He stood before her, a hunted, angry look upon his face. Devi reached up, standing on tiptoes to lay a palm against his cheek. He looked away, refusing to meet her eyes. “I had to come,” he said stiffly. “I could not stay away.”

“If you hadn't, I might have gone mad,” she replied softly.

He said nothing, then glanced ruefully at her. “Huntress.”

They began to meet, as often as they could, most often in the fields that abutted the Nachimanda property, and once, in the late evening, in the lane that led to the house. Devi quoted bits and pieces of Devanna's letters to him. “So intelligent he is. Always was, from the time we were children. All the teachers used to fawn over him, and rightly so—look at him, he is going to become a doctor. Did you know they work with actual dead bodies? He says so, right here. And did you know … ” Machu
would nod, eyes closed, and then he would pull her onto his chest.