Hillstation (17 page)

‘Of course you don't. He talks too much, argues back and stands up for himself.'

‘Against his friend?' I said.

‘Against everyone. Friends included. Even the charitable ones who harbour thoughts of my spiritual inadequacy but are too kind to mention it. I have had enough, Rabindra, of your charity, your pity, this wretched village and its pompous buffoons. I shall marry an English bride, live in England and to hell with the lot of you.' He leaned back, specks of phlegm wetting his lips.

‘But did I not pray for this too?' I asked. ‘Did I not kneel beside you, blow on the embers and provide the presence of a Brahmin without which such efforts are futile?'

He looked down for a moment. ‘Indeed you did,' he muttered. Then he shrugged. ‘Anyway,' he said. ‘We did what we did. And that it made no difference makes no difference. Our brides are here. My troth is pledged. She loves me and I love her. So join me or not, as you please, but I am out of here.'

‘And yet…' I said.

‘What?'

‘Nothing. It doesn't matter.'

‘And yet what?' said Pol, leaning forward again. ‘What?'

‘It's just that… on the roof last night it was suggested that Cindy's love might, at times, be offered somewhat… freely.'

His face creased into a snarl that I found unrecognisable. ‘You have wilfully misunderstood them,' he spat, ‘in order to belittle my expectations. But you of all people should know that to the English this word means different things. Why, on more than one occasion I have heard Michael say that he would “love a cup of tea”. Well, surely that is ridiculous if we take “love” to mean a profound bond of eternal union. Agreeable as tea is, it hardly lasts ten minutes and is, in any case, unlikely to provide the level of spiritual companionship we ultimately desire from a mate. Then again, he once said that he “could murder a chip-butty right now”. But how? How is it possible to “murder” sliced potato wedged between two slices of bread? Are you saying he's mad? Or should we report him to the Sergeant for premeditated foodicide?' He laughed. ‘Believe me, Rabindra, though words are used freely among them, by their actions are they proved.'

‘Then perhaps you can explain,' I said, ‘what is signified by the term, “shagging him witless”.'

He smiled. ‘While the linguists of our blessed country have spent the millennia devising ever more fanciful names for the gods, in England they have spent the same amount of time on “sex”. Don't look so shocked. Some of them we already know. Conjugal rights. Carnal exchange. Nuptial congress. Polite euphemisms that tip-toe delicately around the subject. But there is no limit to the words they have, nor the nuances they indicate, from the delicate to the brutal. For it can be either or both and, in the arms of one who loves truly, it can be both at the same time. Believe me, Rabindra, such knowledge as you Brahmins are so proud of is nothing to what the English know of love.'

‘You had sex with her?' I said, sounding more stupid, perhaps, than I intended to.

‘Of course,' he shrugged. ‘What do you think? But listen, Rabindra, I didn't come here to discuss nocturnal escapades. Our brides are here. The time is now. Take what's yours. All this stuff about the past. Forget it. It's gone. Footprints in the snow. The ladies shall dance. And after they have danced, they shall dance away with us beside them. We're getting out, my friend. This is it.'

‘But why should they dance?' I said. ‘Surely we can just leave.'

‘I like your thinking,' he said. ‘Unfortunately it's a bit more complicated than that. You see, they've run out of money. Mrs Dong says the Cook is prepared to suspend his vegetarian principles in order to make a stew out of them unless they cough up for their rooms. My father, meanwhile, says they're contractually obliged to perform, and if they don't he owes them nothing. I'm afraid it was all a bit tense over breakfast. So dance they must, and dance they will.'

‘But the elders have never revoked an edict. Do you really think your father can persuade them?'

‘Nope,' said Pol smugly. ‘Nope is how the English say no sometimes.'

‘Yep,' I said. ‘I knew that.'

‘Of course you do,' said Pol. ‘Your brother. But my father isn't concerned with arguing. He says the elders can issue all the edicts they like. If they didn't they'd probably have to do some work like other people. But this is how it's going to be: the box office will open at the appointed hour. Whoever buys a ticket will be able to attend. If they don't, they can't. If they don't want to, why should they? It is nothing remarkable. In fact, it is merely what, in show business, is technically referred to as “show business”.'

‘My dear Pol,' I said, frustrated now at his monumental obtuseness. ‘It seems that a night in the company of your beloved has dishevelled your thinking. But consider this simple fact. There is not a single person in the whole village who would go. You can offer as many boxes of tickets as you like. Nobody will defy the edict.'

‘What about you?' said Pol.

I stared at him.

‘Why not?' he said. ‘It's your choice.'

‘The elders have a choice,' I said. ‘My father has a choice. I have no choice but to do as they command.'

‘Obey, disobey. That's a choice.' He seemed to be watching me closely. ‘Oh save your shocked look. I'm not impressed. You made that choice when you skulked up to the caves in defiance of your father. You made it when you kept the company of a low-born. You made it when you asked the gods for an English wife so you could flee forever.'

‘It wasn't defiance,' I said. ‘I just didn't think about it.'

He scoffed.

‘Anyway,' I said. ‘That was just a game. You said so. It kept us amused. It gave us hope. Maybe it was nothing more than two boys playing at being somebody else and trying not to feel too foolish in the process.'

‘Okay, obey them,' said Pol. ‘You can listen from the unwashed stench of your miserable bed to the cackling merriment of people enjoying the show. Or you can be there with them. Your ticket's complimentary, by the way.'

‘With who?' I said. ‘Who is this “them”?'

‘I have spoken to many as I speak to you,' he said. ‘And there are many who, in spite of their protestations, cannot get a vision of ladies dancing about with hardly anything on out of their minds.'

I blushed.

‘It is not just a new Pol,' he said. ‘It's a new Pushkara.'

‘That's treason.'

‘It's a fact.'

‘So you are changing everything that Pushkara is and has always been,' I said.

He nodded.

‘And what gives you the right?' I said.

‘That I can.'

‘Because you have the power?'

He smiled.

‘And is the use of power for one's own advantage a noble or ignoble pursuit?'

‘I don't care.'

‘Because you don't know?'

‘Because I don't care.'

‘It is ignoble, Pol. Ignoble and unworthy and exactly how the elders expect the low-born to behave.'

‘Then I won't be disappointing them,' he said grimly, a flush rising to his face.

‘Indeed you won't,' I said. ‘For no Brahmin would speak of rebellion. No high-born would skulk around persuading the gullible to confound their births. I'm even beginning to wonder if you're not, after all, everything they say you are.'

He stared at me, his knuckles white. For a moment I thought he might strike me. But the anger in his eyes was mixed with something else, an odd flicker like the ghost of some ancient pain.

‘Rabindra!' The muffled tones of my father rebounded in the short passage outside my room. ‘Who have you got in there?'

‘Tell him,' said Pol.

‘You are talking to someone,' said Father, rattling the door handle. ‘Who's that? Why is the door locked? Open it now!'

‘Then I will,' whispered Pol.

‘No,' I said. ‘Please don't.'

‘Hnn? What was that? What did you say?' said Father, banging on the door. ‘Can you not hear me?'

‘Yes, Father, I can hear you,' I said.

‘Then why do you not do as I have asked?' he shouted. ‘I have said open this door and yet it remains closed. I am beginning to wonder what sort of hearing this is of which you speak. Of course, hearing nothing at all is the forgivable affliction of deafness. But hearing something and doing nothing is damnable insolence, I say!'

Pol smiled grimly. ‘You can open that door and touch his feet. Or you can leave. Come with me. Back to the hotel where your lover waits. Run with me and we shall raise the village in revolt.'

‘I don't think Martina loves me,' I said. ‘At least I didn't get that impression when I saw her.'

‘So that's why you are so miserable,' he chuckled. ‘The sweet agonies of impeded passion. But this is how they do it. She might have called you a scrawny piece of Indian junk after you left last night…'

‘She did?'

‘But it's just a test.'

‘Rabindra!' thundered Father, banging on the door.

‘You have to woo her,' said Pol. ‘By charm, stealth and the fervent demonstrations of undying love. To the English, courtship is an art. It's not just an ad in the paper and a quick chat among the aunties. You have to win her. You have to fight for her. The more she resists, the more impassioned you have to become. When Cindy first said “no, no, no”, I said “oh, I'm terribly sorry for being so presumptuous”. To which she said, “you idiot I meant yes”. You see?'

‘Have you learnt so much,' I asked, ‘in such a short time?'

‘I have learnt,' said Pol, ‘that there is always more to learn.'

‘That is indeed, much,' I reflected.

‘You will open this door now,' shouted Father.

‘Coming,' I said.

No sooner had I lifted the catch than Father pushed his way in, hand raised, staring around the room. ‘Who's here?' he demanded.

‘Nobody,' I said, though the window still swung from Pol's escape.

‘Then who were you talking to? Answer me!'

‘I wasn't talking,' I said. ‘I was reciting verses from the Rig Veda.'

Father stared at me for a moment. ‘And why didn't you open the door when I demanded it?'

‘I wanted to,' I said. ‘But my leg had gone numb from sitting on it.'

‘Then why didn't you move it earlier?'

‘Because I didn't want to interrupt the recitation.'

‘Like some idiot Kshatrya?' he barked. ‘You're a Brahmin. Or at least you're supposed to be. What's that on your chest? Under your filthy pyjamas?'

I lifted my hand to the sacred thread that was already damp from the morning's perspiration.

‘Yes, that,' said Father. ‘Kshatryas endure pain in the pursuit of spiritual excellence. Brahmins use their brains. If your leg's numb, shift it. Anyway, get washed. You stink. And get dressed. After which, report to the clinic.'

‘Are we opening today?' I asked.

‘Yes we are. But not for medicine. Well, a stout enema, perhaps, for the good of the village. Now be quick about it.'

I asked for clarification but he said nothing further as he stomped out. In the bathroom, mixing hot and cold water in the jug, I contemplated the Brahminical chord, symbolic of my spiritual efforts over many lives now, presumably, wasted. The element fizzed as I scooped a little more. I liked to get it just right. Of course a Kshatrya wouldn't have fussed. But a Brahmin fusses. A Brahmin can ease a limb, wriggle a toe, reach for a towel and rub himself until he feels warm again. Not because we're soft, nor that Kshatryas aren't noble, but because we have intelligence. I thought of Pol and the choices he had made. By what intelligence had he done so? For if one can move a limb, surely one can change a life. Is it less intelligent to shift a limb or a life that aches? I tipped the warm water over my back, letting it run down my legs. And though it felt good, there was something in me colder still than the cold of the morning alone could answer for.

8

Under the
zealous
supervision of
my two sisters, half the village seemed to be in the clinic, writing on cardboard, arranging pens, sorting wood, or nailing the pieces together. Even Dev, precariously perched on a heap of placards, had closed his eyes to bring a hammer smartly down on his thumb.

‘No, no!' shrieked one of my sisters at an elderly gentleman. ‘What did I tell you?'

‘But is it not neatly written?' protested Mr Dimpas.

‘Neat? It's microscopic. Look at it. I thought you'd squashed a fly.'

‘I'll have you know that I was once highly regarded for my calligraphic accomplishments,' he sniffed.

‘It has to be bold,' shouted my sister. ‘It has to be big. It has to be legible from more than three inches away. Don't you get it? This is for Pushkara, for the mountains that surround us, the valleys that protect us and the world that shall heed our cry.' She took a breath, smoothing her bun with a trembling hand. ‘This is for Shiva,' she hissed.

‘I could add an exclamation mark,' said Mr Dimpas, squinting at the paper.

‘What's the matter with you?' she yelled, snatching the pen and flinging it across the room. ‘Do you think he's going to strain his eyes staring at your puny scribble? Do you think he'll reach for his glasses? This isn't a note to the baker. This isn't a polite suggestion. This is the voice of truth proclaiming its destiny, the spirit of Shiva wreaking vengeance upon the crooked back of The Turtle himself. I want big letters. Until the paper screams, until the mountains shudder and the very rocks beneath us crack with the onslaught of your convictions.'

‘Big letters,' said Mr Dimpas, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief.

‘Big letters,' said my sister looking round. ‘You!' she shouted. ‘Why do you stand around gawping when there's work to be done?'

‘Um ah, I ah…' I said.

‘If you are not helping,' she intoned menacingly, ‘you are hindering.' A number of villagers had stopped to watch as she jabbed at my chest. ‘There are those who stand at the barricades,' she continued, ‘proud and defiant. And those who fraternise with the enemy. Beware, Rabindra, of who you are, for we shall not permit fraternisers, malingerers, or saboteurs. Where are you going?'

‘To my office,' I said.

‘Why?' she said, her voice rising.

‘Well, because it's my office.'

‘Is that so?' sniggered Father who had just arrived in his gown and wig. ‘And where is this door marked, “Rabindranath Sharma”. Let me have a look. Hmm. No. All I can see is a small sign sporting the words, “Minor Ailments”.'

My sister straightened her shawl, smiling. It was common knowledge that I'd once stuck my name to the door in a moment of youthful bravado only to be downgraded from Clinical Assistant to Hygiene Supervisor for three months as a punishment.

‘I just thought if there's going to be a battle then we ought to be prepared, medically speaking,' I said. ‘Amputations, for instance, require morphine, a selection of saws depending which bones need to be cut and rubber wedges for the patient to bite on while we hold them down.'

Several villagers glanced at each other nervously, while my sister scrutinised me for evidence of irony.

‘We've already had one or two injuries,' I said. ‘Mr Drambha, over there, seems to have a nasty splinter in his hand for which my tweezers would provide the ideal remedy. Mr Bhat, on the other hand, literally has a cut finger which might require a stitch or two before it is fit once more for the purpose of sawing wood. If nothing else, the need to continually suck it is considerably impeding his labours.'

Father frowned, observing ruefully that I might be right.

‘And I very much suspect,' I continued, ‘that Mrs Beem is using her left hand to hammer because her right hand is tired, resulting in a growing collection of bent nails and pieces of wood split in the middle.'

‘And if she's left-handed?' bellowed Father, sensing a possible flaw in my argument.

‘I have it on record,' I said, ‘that she is naturally right-handed. Unlike Mrs Aujla there who actually is left-handed. In fact for a long time her family thought she was stupid because she kept dropping things. Of course she regrets not seeing me about this earlier since she ended up in a second-rate marriage, as she describes it, with an especially mediocre husband. Mr Jalpar, meanwhile, happens to be perfectly ambidextrous, which is why he can produce so many brass pots all at the same time, although his eyesight is rather poor which is why they tend to wobble. Mrs Poona, conversely, seemed for a long time to be the very opposite of ambidextrous, which is to say in the possession of two left hands. She was always knocking things over or stabbing herself with hairpins. After several consultations I finally concluded that she was merely distracted by haemorrhoids, which a little cream and steadier bowel movements cleared up in no time.' I looked at her for confirmation, but she was hurrying out with her face in her hands.

‘Do you think?' sneered my other sister tugging stiffly at the hem of her plainest Kamise, ‘that the valiant soldiers of Pushkara would quail at the petty discomfort of a few minor injuries?'

‘Of course not,' I countered, wishing I could just dash into my room and slam the door. ‘But the sooner they are healed, the sooner they can be injured again. For instance, I have noticed that my illustrious brother, who has been to England and is a Doctor, is now wary of the hammer with which he repeatedly hits his thumb. And wariness, as we all know, thanks to the efforts of our magnanimous teacher, with a little help from the Mahabharata
,
the Ramayana and one or two epics of his own composition, is the genesis of fear which, in battle, is the swiftest highway to death. So please, if you would allow me…'

‘You can't!' blurted my sister as I reached for the door handle. ‘He can't. Father, tell him he can't.'

‘Well, I'm not sure,' said Father looking hesitant now. ‘Rabindra's argument, albeit unusually, is not without merit.'

‘Too right,' said an elderly lady holding up a blistered palm. ‘This is beginning to sting like crikey.'

From time to time, by some odd conflux of radio waves across the snowy peaks, our domestic transistors, usually tuned with fading hope to ‘All India Radio', would pick up an ebullient gentleman called ‘Brian'. With a curious accent, neither quite English as we knew it, nor anything else that we understood, he would exhort us to ‘loop our lugs to the latest cool grooves', at which point somebody would shout random words while banging on a dustbin. Some of our youths would get terribly excited before Brian and company switched abruptly to the crackling tones of a Tagore poem. At other times, equally unceremoniously, a nearby parent would simply pull the plug out. Over the years some of Brian's favourite phrases had seeped into the local patois, although an edict had been issued forbidding his least pleasing usages. Thus, ‘crikey' was deemed acceptable in situations of duress, while any reference to women as ‘Sheilas' was strictly prohibited. As an act of defiance, Malek Bister had named one of his daughters ‘Sheila', though it was never something she was entirely comfortable with.

‘And my finger is well-sore, matey,' said an elderly gentleman holding up the evidence.

‘Which, of course, is unfortunate,' said my sister. ‘But wounds will have to be borne with dignity for the time being since, by order of the Supreme Executive of The Pushkara Resistance Council, the office has been declared “out of bounds”.'

‘And who is this Supreme Executive?' I asked.

‘We are,' said both of my sisters simultaneously.

‘Well, can't you just give me permission?' I asked.

‘It would be far too much trouble,' said one of them. ‘We would have to convene a meeting, making sure both of us were present. An application would have to be submitted, an agenda drawn up, minutes taken…'

‘We are wasting time,' said my sister, sweeping her shawl back. ‘By means of futile discussions Rabindra is deliberately jeopardising the very edge without which our undertakings are doomed to fail.'

‘We will not tolerate jeopardisers,' shrilled the other sister.

‘Cavillers, obstructionists, or…' added the first one fixing me with a penetrating stare, ‘infiltrators. For why else should he so harm our cause but that he sympathises with the enemy?'

‘There has been more than a little evidence to that effect,' muttered Father darkly.

‘What evidence do you need?' shrieked my sister. ‘See how he stops us working, how he flouts our directives, impedes our progress and frustrates the very urgency of our mission. Are these not the acts of a traitor?'

I could see a number of people warming to her theme as they muttered to each other.

‘Alright,' I said. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Sorry is not enough,' declared my other sister. ‘The penalty for treachery is death!'

‘What about this?' announced Mr Dak from the other side of the room. I breathed out for a moment. The silence following my sister's last words had been disturbingly void of objections. He was holding up his placard with the words, ‘No Show!' scrawled in large red letters.

‘It is suitably emphatic, I grant you,' offered Mrs Poon, ‘but lacking grammatical propriety. I would suggest, “No To The Show.”'

‘Or indeed, “No To The Show Here In Pushkara”,' said Mr Goli, ‘to be more precise.'

‘Perhaps, “No To The Show of Ladies Dancing Around Scandalously Here In Pushkara”,' suggested Mrs Knapp. ‘For the avoidance of doubt.'

‘I think we ought to add, “In Their Underwear”,' said Mr Peerival. ‘Since we are not against the perfectly respectable activity of dancing per se, just this sort of thing.'

‘And then what?' said one of my sisters. ‘We chant it? How? One of us calls out, “No to the show!” and everyone chimes in with, “of ladies dancing around scandalously in their underwear we're not against the perfectly respectable activity of dancing per se just this sort of thing”?'

‘Well, it gets the message across,' said Mrs Peerival. ‘Which I thought was the point.'

‘That is not the point,' said my sister, clenching her fists. ‘If we want to get our message across we could write them a letter. We could advertise in the
Daily Gazette
.' She stamped her feet losing control of her bun which unravelled wildly over her shoulders. ‘The point is to stop it, to drive them out, to save the soul of this sacred enclave, this jewel of the mountains, this blessed domain of the Great God, or die in the attempt.' She paused, panting.

‘Couldn't we put that on a placard?' said Mr Mahmoud. ‘It's rather stirring, don't you think?'

‘We'd have to use smaller writing,' said Mr Dimpas contemplating his latest effort.

‘Who's going to die?' interjected Mrs Poon, nervously. ‘I was asked to come here with a felt-tip pen, that's all I know.' A ripple of concern shuddered around the room.

‘Nobody's going to die,' said Father. ‘Honestly, you girls are getting far too emotional about it all. I think what we should do now is go to the hall. I heard the Sergeant has already arrived at the hotel, so they're probably on their way by now.'

‘We must act!' shouted one of my sisters. ‘Before it's too late!'

‘More placards!' shouted the other sister.

‘You've got plenty of placards,' said Father, wearily. ‘And since most of Pushkara is already apprised of our intentions, it surely can't be necessary to declare it so repeatedly in a variety of colours. When all's said and done, we'll mostly be waving them at ourselves.'

‘And the demons that lurk among us,' said one of my sisters, glaring in my direction.

‘Yes, well, if you see a demon by all means wave your placard at it,' said Father. ‘But I really think we ought to get going before everyone starts talking about tea and snacks.'

‘Our revered pater is right,' said the other sister. ‘The talking is over. The battle begins. Rise up, my friends, to the barricade!'

‘Ah, yes about that,' said Father. ‘As you know, I've just come from the hall where a number of those tasked with the construction…'

‘Did you give them our designs?' interrupted my sister.

‘Yes, of course,' said Father. ‘Though, as Mahadev pointed out last night, some virtue of a barricade is lost in the absence of its spontaneity…'

‘But they must be impervious and resolute,' interjected my other sister, ‘as the people behind them. For it is at the barricades that we shall face the enemy, our heads high, sinews tight, breasts bared…'

Father opened his mouth to speak but my sister continued.

‘… hearts bursting, voices crying the ineluctable vehemence of our demands.'

‘No Show!' cried my other sister.

‘No To The Show!' echoed a couple of elders adding one or two modifications.

‘Of salacious dancing by people purporting to be from England and such-like,' added Mr Buliwal hopefully.

‘As distinct from the performance of dance, per se, some of which is perfectly respectable and rather nice, actually,' chipped in Mr Parasurama.

‘… our faces turned to the dying rays of the setting sun,' continued my sister with only the slightest flicker of irritation. ‘As the fires rage and The Turtle begs: “Please, please, have mercy.” But what mercy did he show when…'

‘Yes, yes, we get the point,' interrupted Father. ‘But listen to me. Construction met with one or two difficulties. I'm not saying insuperable but certainly there are difficulties. It's a question of materials.'

‘But did we not say they should tear down their houses to furnish the wood?'

‘Over this there was some discussion,' muttered Father.