Hillstation Read online

  ‘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.

  ‘Revered brother,’ I said, sitting at his feet, ‘I am perplexed.’

  ‘Join the club,’ he said.

  ‘All my life I have been told how admirable the English are…’

  ‘There’s a dog for sale,’ he interrupted. ‘But who’d buy a dog when you can chuck a bone out the window and five scraggy mutts jump to catch it?’

  ‘At least culturally and administratively,’ I continued, ‘notwithstanding the occasional bombarding of Maharajas out of their palaces.’

  ‘And these are dogs that don’t even belong to anyone, just nameless bags of fluff and bone, I suppose. Do you think dogs who don’t belong to anyone have names?’ he asked.

  ‘But now that we have actual English people among us, surely we should be welcoming them with open arms?’

  ‘And if they don’t have names,’ he continued, ‘what do you think they call each other? Or maybe they don’t. Maybe they just mooch around without bothering too much about who they are or why.’

  ‘Is this not an ideal opportunity to celebrate our cultural similarities and even our differences; Indians never being much inclined to bombard anyone out of anything? You might even find that you have mutual acquaintances. I’m sure it’s possible.’

  ‘And here it says that Miss Gopal is now sixteen years old and available for marriage. But everyone knows her parents have been saying that for the last five years and she’ll never get married unless they can do something about her vexatious disposition.’

  ‘Perhaps they know the Queen and can pass on your regards.’

  ‘Do you know she hit her last suitor over the head with a broom because he didn’t take his shoes off at the door?’

  ‘Noble brother,’ I said, ‘whose venerable feet I am not fit to touch, I implore you to discover what is irking Father. If it is the apprehension that Mr Bister is responsible for the arrival of our English visitors, then he is wrong in this.’

  ‘Haven’t you been to see Miss Gopal?’ said Dev looking at me. ‘Twice, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Three times.’

  He chuckled, turning a page.

  ‘Father still insists we would make a good match.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she attacked you, did she?’

  ‘Yes, a little.’

  ‘But you must have been warned about the shoes.’

  ‘Indeed, but when I bent down to take them off, my shirt became un-tucked at the back. She said, how many times have I told you not to wander around like an over-dressed baboon with your shirt hanging out. I answered that, as she’d never mentioned it before, this could only be regarded as a first infringement.’

  ‘And what did she say to that?’ asked Dev.

  ‘She attacked me with a broom.’

  ‘Did she strike you?’

  ‘No, I jumped aside. But the blow saw to some wooden nick nacks on the hall table, after which their pet dog, excited by all the commotion, attempted to seize the broom for himself. I left them struggling in the hall where, judging by her screams, I assumed he’d turned his attentions to something more accessible.’

  ‘Well, that would explain why they are also advertising their dog,’ said Dev.

  ‘Mahadev,’ I said, returning to the point. ‘I have a confession to make. Or rather two. The first is of professional misconduct at the clinic this morning.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ he said, frowning into the vacant hollow of his empty cup.

  ‘A patient came to see the Doctor but I attended to her instead.’

  ‘So?’ he said. ‘You know I’m far too busy to footle about with every petty ailment that saunters in bleating for medical attention.’

  ‘But I behaved as if I was the Doctor.’

  ‘In what way?’ he asked, tilting the cup and sucking at it.

  ‘In the way that I ushered her into the consulting room with a vague air of pompous authority. By standing in front of the door so she couldn’t read the words “Minor Ailments” on the plate. In not wearing my white coat so she couldn’t see the name-badge pinned to my top pocket. On one occasion I allowed the sunlight to glint off my stethoscope knowing that nothing inspires confidence more than medical equipment the purpose of which is mysterious. When I sat at my desk it was with a proprietorial air, and when I gazed thoughtfully into space it was to convey the impression that I knew what I was talking about. And, worse than all of this, when she enquired obliquely as to my professional status I failed to refute the implicit suggestion that I might be medically qualified. All of which amounts, I fear, to the masquerading of myself as a person beyond his true credentials.’

  ‘Did you kill her?’ he said, squinting into the cup.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

  ‘Was she lying prostrate, mouth open, not breathing, with a glazed look in her eyes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, those are the usual symptoms,’ he said. ‘For future reference.’

  ‘I am fairly certain,’ I said, ‘that she left the clinic alive.’

  ‘No harm done, then.’

  ‘However,’ I said, faltering slightly, ‘this transgression of clinical protocol pales beside the gravity of my other confession.’

  ‘Do you think you could get one of our sisters to make me another cup of tea?’ he said.

  ‘They have gone to their room to entreat the gods to remove whatever blight in their souls caused them to have so reprehensible a brother,’ I said. ‘But I’ll make you one, if you wish.’

  As I watched the warm chai bubble in the saucepan, I couldn’t help wondering if Dev’s dismissal of my infractions amounted to an absolution or if I would still have to pay for them later. If the forced departure of my beloved was part of the bill, I was obviously paying big time, perhaps even for one or two past crimes. It was Sergeant Shrinivasan’s view that a good thwack from his cane dealt not only with immediate misdemeanours but those from past lifetimes and even lifetimes to come. At least that’s what he wrote in his deposition to the District Police Administration after some of the villagers had complained about his excessive use of force even in situations where no force had been required. His argument had been accepted and his use of the cane, thereafter, all the more enthusiastic.

  Dev accepted the tea with a smile.

  ‘Revered brother,’ I said, ‘If the arrival of these English persons has caused any upset in Pushkara, then I fear the blame is to be laid with me.’

  ‘How’s that, then?’ he said, taking a sip and smiling. I knew just how he liked it.

  ‘Because it was not under normal circumstances that they were brought here,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, picking up the paper. ‘I know.’

  ‘You know?’ I said, startled.

  ‘Their plane was struck by lightning which shorted out the electrical circuits forcing them to make an emergency landing in the city on the plains.’

  ‘That is indeed how it might appear,’ I said. ‘But the lightning was no accident.’

  ‘Lightning is always an accident,’ chuckled Dev, ‘it’s hardly the sort of thing one can organise in advance.’

  ‘But that’s exactly the point,’ I said. ‘Pol and I made it happen, through our sacrifice and austerities, the storm, the rain, the aeronautically debilitating bolts of lightning, everything.’

  ‘Well, that’s very interesting,’ said Dev. ‘I didn’t know you were in the habit of performing sacrifices.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘But I was desperate.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘An English bride. Which the gods have now provided.’

  He chuckled. Then he chuckled some mor
e. Then he raised the tea to his lips and put it down again chuckling so much it spilt. I made a mental note to ask Mrs Pallabhi to mop it up in the morning.

  ‘Rabindra,’ he said. ‘You might have wanted an English bride, but no amount of grovelling to abstract concepts is going to make one drop out of the skies.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Hmm, I see what you mean. But alright, obviously it can seem a bit like that sometimes. Things do. If you sit around long enough, sooner or later two completely separate things are going to happen in a way that seems connected. But the fact is it doesn’t mean a thing, Rabindra. Really, it doesn’t mean anything at all.’

  ‘But didn’t one of the holy men tell us that everything is connected to everything else and nothing happens without a reason?’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ said Dev. ‘Until one of the goats attacked him on the upper slopes. You remember? The goatherd accused him of provoking the goat which the holy man denied. Well, either he had done something to provoke the goat or he hadn’t. You see? Philosophy is just the loose assembly of whatever vague ideas happen to suit us at the time. You break a tea cup and say it wasn’t your fault. It just happened to drop out of your hands. You might have carelessly let go of it, but are you responsible for gravity? Or maybe a breeze tipped it off the table, but that wasn’t your fault either because somebody else opened the window. A plane is struck by lightning and you think it’s because you chucked a spoonful of ghee on a fire. But let’s look at it another way. The gods aren’t concerned with our petty problems. They’re too busy maintaining the balance of good and evil, right and wrong, justice and injustice, the great duality that is the weft of ignorance and stupidity commonly referred to as “the universe”. So it’s not that easy to catch their attention. You can’t just trot along your whole life paying them scant regard until you want something and then come over all pious in the hope they’ll be happy with a couple of marigolds. They want unremitting obsequiousness every day for years on end. And only then, if at all, will they even consider coughing up some grudging little boon.’

  ‘It wasn’t just a couple of marigolds. Really. It was… a whole load of penances. For instance, I washed every day, almost, well mostly…’