Hillstation Page 10

  ‘We’ve been here before,’ said Martina.

  ‘Not at all,’ said the Sergeant. ‘For hitherto I have waxed lyrically only about the saris. Now, permit me to speak of the necklaces.’

  ‘I mean this road,’ said Martina.

  ‘These are not just any necklaces,’ continued the Sergeant, ‘with the beads all wonky and the clasp opening for no reason.’

  ‘We passed that bloke jumping up and down with a three-legged ornamental table about two minutes ago,’ said Martina.

  ‘And as you sneeze, perhaps on the steps of a sacred temple or some hallowed tomb, the whole bloody thing falls to pieces…’ continued the Sergeant.

  ‘And that,’ said Hendrix, pointing at the village rabbit.

  ‘We did have a peacock,’ I said. ‘Until its escape necessitated a replacement. The rabbit is considerably less sacred, mythologically, but impressive in its relentless attempts to emulate the fortunes of its predecessor.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ said Martina. ‘The point is we’ve seen it before.’

  Behind us, Malek was leaning out of his car, shaking a fist and shouting.

  ‘… or drops in your soup at an important dinner party, allowing everyone present to form the opinion that you have, if you will forgive me, bought cheap,’ added the Sergeant.

  ‘What’s he playing at?’ said Martina as Malek drew up beside us, gesticulating wildly.

  The Sergeant accelerated.

  ‘Steady on,’ said Hendrix.

  Mr Kapra was jumping up and down again, shaking a table as we passed by.

  ‘In short, therefore,’ said the Sergeant, ‘I am prepared to offer you three pairs of socks and one necklace, handcrafted from only the finest materials, with the purchase of three saris. That is my final offer.’

  We were now approaching the fork at the end of the High Street. One road led past the engine workshop to the Shri Malek Bister Memorial Hall, the other circled back to the village. This time, Malek had managed to get beside us trying, it would seem, to force the Sergeant towards the hall. The Sergeant switched his siren on but Malek persisted, swerving sharply into his path. The Sergeant braked noisily, swore out of the window but was compelled, finally, to take the lower road.

  ‘Anything less,’ he shouted above the siren, ‘and I would be robbing myself. Meaning I would have to arrest myself, leading to unimaginably complex paperwork.’

  Both cars screeched to a stop on the wide expanse of ground in front of the Hall. Malek slammed his door and marched over.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded.

  ‘I was obliged,’ said the Sergeant defensively, ‘to choose a route that would minimise the possibility of civil unrest.’

  ‘I asked you to escort us to the Shri Malek Bister International Memorial Arts and Exhibition Complex not take us on a tour of the bloody village.’

  ‘Do you not hear the siren?’ shouted the Sergeant over it.

  ‘Oh, is that what it is? I thought it was you on your bloody Veena.’

  ‘It is against the law,’ said the Sergeant, stiffening slightly, ‘to obstruct a police vehicle when it is playing its siren.’

  ‘So arrest me,’ said Malek. ‘Go on, arrest me.’

  ‘I have a good mind to,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Not from any sense of personal affront but because it is my duty. You have terrorised a policeman going about his business, you have disregarded the warnings of a siren, you have obstructed justice, committed perjury by questioning my motives, and you have dared to insult the sacred music of Shiva himself.’

  ‘I know what you’re up to,’ said Malek, turning back to his car. ‘You think I don’t, but I bloody well do.’

  The Sergeant sat for a moment, breathing quietly. Then he straightened up and said, ‘So what do you say?’

  But Martina had already climbed out of the jeep and was staring at the hall alongside Hendrix. Cindy was twirling around with her arms outstretched while Pol looked on, chewing his lip. Mr Chatterjee hurried out from the entrance.

  ‘Greetings,’ he said. ‘May I formally welcome you to the…’

  ‘Never mind all that,’ said Malek. ‘Is everything ready?’

  ‘Indeed it is, Bister Sahib,’ said Mr Chatterjee as Malek followed him back to the hall. ‘At least everything that I supposed ought to be. I must admit that when you told me earlier to “get everything ready” it crossed my mind to ask what you meant exactly by “everything”. This is the point, really, not to labour it, but if one has a question, one should ask it for why else should one have a question? Of what use, in fact, is a question that one does not ask? It is not a question at all. It is the very poor relation of a question, a distant cousin or even a step-brother that possesses in some ways a secondary familial association but is nevertheless not related either directly through blood or historically through domestic…’

  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 br
eath 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.