Hillstation (10 page)

‘Brendan,' said Martina, ‘did Mike say anything about Bombay?'

‘Like what?' said Hendrix.

‘Those dicks,' said Martina.

‘What dicks?' said Hendrix.

‘Two pairs,' said the Sergeant, accelerating at a group of dogs.

‘The sponsors,' said Martina.

‘What about them?' said Hendrix.

‘Did Mike say anything?'

‘Um, I dunno,' said Hendrix. ‘I don't think so.'

‘Alright,' chuckled the Sergeant. ‘You are clearly adept at the rumpty tumpty of retail discourse. So let us say, three pairs of socks and one set of lady's undergarments at no extra charge with two saris.'

When she had stood on the hotel steps I thought I had never seen a woman so adamantine, impermeable and resolute, as if the tumultuous crowds were an ephemera she could shrug off with a mere flick of her head. But she seemed fragile now, somehow vulnerable, and I wanted to seize the hand that lay so limp on the cracked leather seat between us.

‘And what was that about something having its head chopped off?' she said. ‘Do you think he's alright?'

‘That's just Mike stuff,' said Hendrix.

‘I expect he was referring to The Turtle,' I said. ‘Perhaps he'd heard about it from Mrs Dong. It is our great legend. In fact, it is our only legend but it is very great and famous, therefore, throughout Pushkara, and possibly even some of the villages further down the mountain.'

‘Oh, right,' she said.

‘And it is in honour of the Turtle's demise,' remarked Sergeant Shrinivasan, ‘that I am able, on this occasion only, to offer socks, undergarments, saris and necklaces, did I mention the necklaces, at such unbelievable prices.'

‘I didn't think you get turtles up mountains,' said Hendrix, turning round from the front seat.

‘How it came to be here,' I said, ‘is part of the legend. You see, once upon a time…'

‘Dig it,' said Hendrix.

‘… there was a pious sage,' I continued, ‘who lived in an ants' nest…'

‘Respect,' interjected Hendrix.

‘… eating nothing but dust, dried twigs and sometimes not even that. In winter he slept in the snow. In summer he wore heavy goat-skins and sat motionless in the noonday sun. There was no pain he would not endure, no suffering he could not enhance by ingenious means. All he wanted was for Shiva to reward his austerities with a visit. Some say he was also hoping to be raised heavenwards on a pillow of light, though scholars are divided on this point.'

‘So what happened?' said Hendrix.

‘Well, one day it seemed that his efforts had been recognised when Shiva appeared before him in all his glory. The Sage leapt out of the icy stream in which he was meditating and shouted, ‘Great Lord, by my sufferings have I won your praise.'

‘Whoa,' said Hendrix.

‘However, to the Sage's disappointment, all Shiva said was, “Who are you?” To which the Sage replied, “Who am I? Who the hell do you think I am? I have roasted in summer, frozen in winter, lived in the company of biting insects resisting the urge to squash the buggers…”'

‘He said that?' said Martina.

‘According to some interpretations,' I mumbled, realising that I'd picked up this embellishment from Mr Bister whose reverence for the legend was notoriously fickle.

‘And then?' asked Hendrix.

‘The Sage fell to the ground, kissing Shiva's feet, and cried, “Blessed Lord, I am your most devoted supplicant.”'

‘Your biggest fan, yeah?' said Hendrix, smiling.

‘Possibly he said that too. It would not surprise me.'

‘I've seen a lot of Gods pissed off by that,' said Hendrix.

‘Shiva was a little more phlegmatic. He said, “Thank you but I just happened to be passing through. Your presence here is incidental.” And off he went.'

‘Sage goes mental,' anticipated Hendrix.

‘You are correct,' I said. ‘He ran around like a crazed thing, stamping on ants, cursing the heavens, cursing the gods and vowing eternal vengeance on Shiva himself. It is said that he howled for three hundred years demanding that Shiva come down and fight him.'

‘Gotta salute him for that,' said Hendrix. ‘So what did Shiva do?'

‘Shiva is not much perturbed by such things. He just carried on with his duties, keeping the universe in order, collecting the dead, that kind of thing. But the Sage was immutable, and for many lives thereafter contemplated only the destruction of Shiva by ever more horrible means. In time, so single-minded was he, that his back grew a crusty shell, his head became heavy with scales, his jaws sharpened into solid bones with two holes for a nose, while his arms and legs shrunk into the stubby limbs with which he scurried about in search of his enemy.'

‘A turtle, right?' said Hendrix.

I smiled. ‘He wandered the hills and valleys, the deserts and forests for several thousand years until, one day, he found himself back in Pushkara. He decided that if Shiva had happened by once, he might do so again. So The Sage Who Was Now A Turtle settled down to wait, which was not good news for the village, since The Sage Who Was Now A Turtle…'

‘Just call him The Turtle,' said Hendrix.

‘… ate the goats on the upper pasture, the yaks on the lower slopes, trampled the tea trees and sometimes tore the roofs off houses to consume the people inside. After several millennia, during which the villagers had grown accustomed to bolting their doors at night only to find their grandmothers devoured anyway, Shiva passed through once more on an errand for Rama. Weary from travelling, he stopped to rest among the sweet breezes and snowy peaks for which the village is so admired. He took off his armour, set down his weapons and laid back to enjoy a little sunshine when, with a blood-curdling scream, the Turtle jumped out from behind a rock and snapped at his head. Shiva leaped up, skipping nimbly away as the Sage rolled, turned and sprung again.

‘Who are you?' said Shiva, batting him aside. ‘You look like some kind of hideous turtle.'

‘Who am I?' cried the sage. ‘Ha, ha. Well, that's the question isn't it? Who the hell am I? Ha ha. Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha…'

‘We get the laugh,' said Hendrix.

‘Who else spends countless lives meditating on nothing but your demise? Who else is so fixated on vengeance that they mutate inexorably into what you call “some kind of hideous turtle”? I am the one you scorned. The one who deserved praise and didn't get it. I am your death.'

‘I take it you're looking for a fight,' said Shiva.

‘Yo!' said Hendrix.

‘And with that they did battle. For days and nights they raged across the heavens. Their mighty steps carved out the craggy passes. The Turtle's tears of fury fell as snow. The sparks from Shiva's arrows, glancing off the Turtle's shell, became stars. The blood drawn from the Turtle's tail in one ferocious swoop of Shiva's lance turned the morning sky crimson, while a retaliatory slash to Shiva's arm so graced the dusk. The curses of the Turtle congealed into the black oozy stuff that comes out of the ground in certain places when you dig it, while the sweat from Shiva's brows fell as flowers. The breath from their exertions became the morning mist while Shiva's resolve to fight and fight became the winter cold that chills our bones.'

‘Is this out on video?' asked Hendrix.

‘And then The Turtle did something terrible. He had requested a momentary truce in which to take refreshments, and Shiva had been kind enough to agree, setting aside his arms as The Turtle sipped from the mountain stream. But when Shiva knelt in turn to quench his thirst, The Turtle leapt at his back, jaws open for one terrible snap. Luckily Shiva saw him reflected in the cupped waters of his hands and stepped aside. The Turtle crashed into the stream where Shiva held him, choking and spluttering until he struggled no more. Then Shiva cut his head off and put it on a rock to remind the whole world of the day that Virtue conquered Spiritual Greed which, according to one of our visiting holy men, is the most heinous vice of all. And there it remains to this day, a welcome source of shade for penitents and picnickers.'

‘Where?' asked Hendrix.

‘On the far edge of the hills. We call it Shiva Rock.'

‘Why not Turtle Rock?' asked Hendrix.

‘Because that would honour The Turtle,' I said. ‘Which is beside the point.'

‘And that is why,' chipped in the Sergeant, ‘our village is named “Pushkara” which is another name of Shiva, the Great Lord.'

‘What did it used to be called?' asked Hendrix.

‘This is now lost to us,' muttered the Sergeant. ‘And, to be frank, is largely irrelevant. However, it is no co-incidence that the official musical instrument of this august domain is the Rudra Veena. Rudra being yet another name of Shiva, and the Veena his instrument of choice which, as I trust you will discover, I have performed to great acclaim through many lifetimes though less so in this one.'

‘You play?' said Hendrix, looking impressed.

‘Not at all. It is the god who plays. I merely wait for him to guide my fingers.'

‘Man!' said Hendrix, shaking his head.

‘It is the same with saris and socks,' said the Sergeant. ‘I do not look for these things. But if the gods bring them to me at incredibly low prices then it is my duty to pass them on with only a small mark-up to cover overheads and expenses. This is not commerce. This is the sharing of gifts. To buy a sari or indeed two saris with matching socks and a beautifully crafted necklace, at prices that will make you laugh, from Sergeant Shrinivasan is to participate in the divinity of creation.'

‘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…'