Hillstation (19 page)

9

The jostling was out of
control even before the Sergeant had skidded to a stop in front of the barricade. Mrs Knapp gave up trying to retrieve her aubergines which had quickly been trampled to mush, and drove a placard through Mr Innuganti's cucumbers instead, accusing him of sabotage. He responded by brandishing some of his produce in a manner that made her retreat hastily. Dev, meanwhile, refused to stir from his chaise
longue in spite of my attempts to draw his attention to our sisters, one of whom was now marching across the barricade kicking off non-combustibles while indignant fruit-sellers tried to poke her down with sticks. The other was walking towards the commotion with a serene, if slightly wet, smile on her face clutching a box of matches.

‘Jammie,' I said, hurrying over to her. ‘Whatever you intend to do, I beg of you don't.'

‘Do not call me Jammie,' she answered, curtly.

I stepped back a little.

‘You recoil not from the smell of petroleum,' she continued, perceptively, ‘but at the fortitude of my resolve. I have plenty of both if you'd care to join me.'

‘And what would that achieve?' I asked. ‘Beyond two charred siblings?'

‘There comes a time…' she said enigmatically, pushing past me.

I grabbed her elbow. ‘For what?' I demanded. ‘For reducing your precious body to a stinking heap of bones?'

‘That is all it is anyway,' she said, pulling free.

‘But you have so much to live for,' I said, hoping she wouldn't ask me to enumerate.

‘What lives is what we have chosen to die for,' she answered, lifting her face defiantly.

‘No, no,' I said. ‘What lives is my dear sister with that spark in her eyes and the slight twitch of facial muscles that used to be a smile before she forgot how to extend them to any semblance of meaningful expression. It's what remains of the sweet child who used to giggle at cows munching on mother's herb garden until we chased them away with a frying pan, although questions were raised about the propriety of this, given their divinity. It's the little girl who used to gaze at birds and sigh at nothing, my gentle-souled, good-natured, slightly-too-sincere at times but undoubtedly well-meaning little Jammie-pops.'

‘You have always been inclined towards sentimentality,' she snorted. ‘But there is no place for snivelling in the face of wickedness. There comes a time when the good must face their foe, and either send it back from whence it came or perish in the attempt. This is what is known as “The Crunch”.'

‘I have no idea what a burning body sounds like,' I said, ‘but I'm pretty sure it isn't crunch.'

‘Plus you have always been too literal,' she said. ‘Evil knows nothing of half-measures and neither do we. The good must be prepared to make whatever sacrifice is necessary.'

‘But all they want to do is dance,' I said.

‘Look at them,' she snorted.

Sergeant Shrinivasan was fumbling desperately with the clips that secured his cane to the jeep. Inside, I could see Sharon primping her hair while Mike rummaged in his pockets.

‘Not at them,' said my sister. ‘Them.' She indicated the villagers who were variously displaying their wares or hurling them at each other. Two of our fruit-juice sellers had abandoned the concord of generations to squabble over which end of the village was which, one of them declaring his ancient prerogative to the North, and the other arguing that, as the earth was essentially spherical, it was absurd to think of anywhere as the end of anything.

‘The enemy might be in that car,' muttered my sister, ‘but the evil is among us.'

The Sergeant tapped twice on the roof. Three doors swung open. Hendrix stood up clutching a bottle of beer, followed by Mike dabbing his forehead, and Sharon sucking fiercely on a cigarette. A moment later Malek Bister crept out, flinching at nothing as he tucked himself between Hendrix and Mike.

‘Behold The Turtle!' cried my other sister from the barricade.

‘Hi everyone,' said Hendrix, raising his bottle.

‘Stay close,' hissed the Sergeant. ‘And follow me.'

‘What did I tell you?' said Malek as they hurried behind the Sergeant, ‘such enthusiasm for the arts!'

‘Yeah, but no freebies,' muttered Mike. ‘I don't care how venerated their knowledge of the bleeding universe is.'

‘Of course,' said Malek. ‘It is unequivocally stated in the terms and conditions that complimentary tickets are for close family only.'

‘Like ten thousand aunties,' grunted Mike. ‘I know your game.'

‘I don't want a frickin' chess set,' said Sharon to Mr Nageswar. ‘Even if they all fit snugly into little trays and the whole damn thing makes a handy carrying case. Have you got that?'

He evidently hadn't because he managed to say, ‘See how they all fit snugly into little trays and the whole thing makes a handy carrying case,' before he was barged aside by equally fervent retailers waving string puppets, brass elephants and table mats. I last glimpsed him trying to retrieve his pieces from the ground, the handy carrying case, it would seem, of little use when propelled through the air.

Hendrix meanwhile was winking randomly at young ladies. ‘Catch you later,' he said to one as Sharon elbowed him and the lady's father demanded an explanation.

‘Stop!' shouted the sister covered in petrol. ‘Stop right there.'

‘Oh God, the sisters,' muttered Malek.

‘Be informed,' she continued, ‘that I have in my hands a box of matches.'

‘Just the thing,' said Mike popping a cigar into his mouth.

‘Be further informed,' said my sister, ignoring him, ‘that I am prepared to set myself on fire unless you desist from your heinous intentions and leave the hallowed air of our sacred domain by the swiftest means possible, undertaking never to return for as long as the Universe remains an existent entity.'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' laughed Malek. ‘You'll be lucky to singe your shawl with those pathetic little sticks.'

‘Uh… the smell,' said Hendrix. ‘And I don't think she's been fixing motorcycles.'

‘She has doused herself with petrol,' I explained.

‘Is she serious?' said Mike.

‘If you set yourself alight,' barked Sergeant Shrinivasan, ‘I shall have you arrested for unauthorised conflagration in a public place.'

‘She can't be serious,' said Mike.

‘I am deadly serious,' said my sister.

‘What's going on?' said Father, pushing through the crowd. ‘Jammie, why are you soaking wet and smelling of petrol?'

‘The stupid girl is threatening to set fire to herself,' chortled Malek.

‘What gives you these ideas?' said Father, mopping his face with his wig. ‘Certainly not your family. Have I ever set fire to myself? Have any of your relatives ever set fire to themselves? Have you ever come home early for some reason to catch me reclining
inconflagrante
in the sitting room?'

‘Mrs Dong's cook has many relatives of whom nothing remains but ashes,' said my sister.

‘How do you know this?' said Father, frowning.

‘He spoke of it,' she whispered, a little wave of pain flickering across her face. ‘But that doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters except that sin is punished and the virtuous stand up for what's right.'

‘It is perfectly possible to stand up for what's right without being on fire,' sighed Father. ‘Can't you talk to her?' he asked my other sister.

‘As one torch of righteousness to another,' she replied, ‘what is there to say?'

‘Listen, sweetie,' said Hendrix, ‘we're just here for the run-through, tech stuff, that's all. So how about you chill out, grab a beer. I'll do my job. Sound and lights…'

My sister raised the box. Hendrix stepped back.

‘Tell you what,' said Mike. ‘Save that for now. We'll make you the grand
finale.
'

‘You hear,' said my sister, ‘how he mocks us?'

Mike snorted and marched off towards the hall accompanied by the Sergeant who twitched his cane at a loitering bangle-maker.

‘Keep her talking,' said Hendrix, taking Sharon's hand as they followed Mike and the Sergeant. ‘That's the thing.'

‘This is your doing!' shouted Father at Malek.

‘My doing?' retorted Malek. ‘My doing is a rare performance of Traditional English Dance at the Shri Malek Bister International Events of Supreme Cultural Importance Centre. Your daughters are your doing. At least I hope they are.' He smirked viciously, turning his back on Father who had thrown his wig to the ground and was stamping on it.

Although I doubted that my sister would actually do as she promised, the proximity of numerous candles, incense-sticks, and tradespeople stopping for a smoke gave me cause for concern. Hendrix waited for me in the porch.

‘Don't worry about your sister,' he said. ‘The longer she leaves it, the less chance she'll go up in flames.'

‘You think her resolve will weaken over time?'

‘Evaporation,' he smiled. ‘Anyway, you coming in?'

I hesitated. Behind us the village had regrouped into a frantic wall of vegetables, fruit, fine furnishings and ornamental nick-nacks. Hendrix made the decision for me, pulling me in and slamming the door. ‘This way,' he said.

We passed Mike and Malek in the ticket office. ‘That might be what you charged in Bombay,' Malek was saying, ‘but up here that's almost the price of an average family scooter.'

‘Where are the others?' I asked Hendrix as he pushed through to the auditorium.

‘Gone walkies,' said Sharon flexing her ankles on the edge of the stage.

‘Cindy wanted to check out the hills,' explained Hendrix. ‘I think she was hoping to see some rabbits or something.'

‘Can you hear it now?' called the Sergeant from somewhere.

‘Hear what?' said Sharon.

‘What about now?' he said.

‘Nope,' said Sharon. ‘Not a sausage.'

‘Not even a small sausage?' said the Sergeant emerging from behind the curtains with a transistor radio. ‘It is perfectly audible in my kitchen.'

‘Mr Bister,' said Hendrix as Malek came in looking flushed. ‘When you built this place did you ever think to install a sound system?'

The Sergeant gave the radio a brisk shake, producing a momentary burst of Brian shouting, ‘Wrap your head-flaps around this tootin' tune, my lovelies' followed by a haze of crackling.

‘Of course I did,' said Malek, looking slightly affronted. ‘People receive their tickets out there in the ticket office. They come through that door where their tickets are taken so they can be used next time and then they sit down to watch the performance.'

‘Not a sound system,' sighed Hendrix. ‘A sound system.'

Malek stared at him.

‘Okay,' said Hendrix poking about in a crate. ‘We provide the dancers, yeah? The design, props, the engineer… and these.'

‘Coasters?' said Malek.

‘CDs,' said Hendrix.

‘Yes, I meant that,' said Malek. ‘I have seen them before, obviously. They are clever devices for making music.'

‘But not by themselves,' said Hendrix.

‘Of course not,' said Malek. ‘Do you think I am simple? In the first place you need artists to play some music and only then is it stuck to that thing.'

‘Right,' said Hendrix. ‘So how does it get out again?'

‘Out?' said Malek.

‘Through a sound system,' said Hendrix.

‘Well, clearly this is so,' said Malek rolling his eyes. ‘The thing itself makes almost no sound at all. Even dropped, the most you are likely to hear is a feeble plinking noise. Certainly this would be insufficient for recital purposes and hardly enough to dance to. What's needed is a device of some description. This is so obvious it is a wonder you even mention it.' He laughed awkwardly.

‘So where is it?' asked Hendrix.

‘It is on order,' murmured Malek, studying his shoes.

‘So what am I gonna dance to?' said Sharon lighting another cigarette. ‘The whine of mosquitoes?' She slapped her arm. ‘That bloody thing up there?'

‘That is the finest air con apparatus in the whole of Pushkara,' said Malek, looking hurt. ‘Is it not cool and fragrant in here while outside it is hot and stinking? Let me remind you where you are. This is the Shri Malek Bister Centre for Cultural Astonishments. Behold the front seats, luxuriously upholstered, the specially appointed stage, the curtains made from all the velvet left over after we'd finished the seats. You give them a good fondle and tell me if you have ever fondled curtains like that before.' He wiped his chin, sweating in spite of the finest air con in the whole of Pushkara. ‘Did Malek Bister's Events Management Incorporated scrimp on the slightest detail nor fail to cater for every eventuality?'

‘I don't suppose you've got any acetates…?' said Hendrix gazing up at the lights.

‘Huh?' said Malek.

Mike had wandered in by now, chewing rather than puffing on his cigar.

‘Mike?' said Sharon.

‘What?' said Mike spitting out a fleck of tobacco.

‘I think we're stuffed.'

‘Oh,' he said, slouching heavily into a seat at the back.

‘Alright,' said Hendrix, dropping the CDs back in the box, ‘looks like it's “No To The Show Of Ladies Dancing In A Way To Which We Are Unaccustomed Not To Say More Than Slightly Averse”.'

‘So what do we do?' asked Sharon. ‘Mike?'

‘Yeah?' said Mike.

‘What do we do?'

‘Ah…' said Mike. ‘I guess we… you know… I don't know.'

Sharon sighed, bending her toes back.

‘There is perhaps a way,' said Sergeant Shrinivasan. ‘If I may be so bold.' He smiled worryingly. ‘Not so very far from where we are gathered, there happens by chance, perhaps by grace, quite possibly by the will of Shiva himself, to be a person universally acclaimed in the musical arts. I speak of a maestro, a genius, a gifted embodiment of song itself, and one of the finest performers ever to waft sweet melodies into the honeyed air from the wooden carcass of a simple artefact. Moreover, so far as I know he is presently available and remarkably inexpensive.'