Hillstation (24 page)

‘It is for you to love and me to plan,' retorted Pol.

‘I'll tell you what a plan is,' said Cindy, standing up. ‘It's an immigration visa. It's an entry permit. It's telling someone you love them so you'll get past the blokes at Heathrow. And I'll tell you what love is. Love is trust. Love is believing what you're told. Love is saying what you mean. I don't trust you anymore and I don't believe anything you say.'

‘You are wilfully misinterpreting my words,' growled Pol, ‘in order to confound my authority and get your own way.'

‘No,' said Cindy, quietly. ‘I'm just saying that all this talk of love and happiness is just so you can get a ticket. Well, I'm not a ticket. And you know why? Because I'm not going anywhere. From the minute I set foot in this place I knew where I belonged. It's the happy hideaway I've always dreamed of. And I'm staying here whether you like it or not, with or without you.'

‘For this disobedience you should be beaten!' shouted Pol, raising his hand.

‘I wouldn't do that if I were you,' said Martina, menacingly.

‘Without me, then,' said Pol, sensibly dropping it again.

‘Okay,' said Cindy. ‘If that's what you want.'

‘No, no,' spluttered Pol, ‘That is not what I'm saying.'

‘Too late,' said Martina. ‘You just said it.'

Pol looked at me for help but I was too busy enjoying the departure of his smile, as clinically complete as anything I could have achieved with my imaginary scalpel.

‘A lot of people say they love me,' said Cindy. ‘Usually cause it's in the script. But this wasn't a script. This wasn't acting. Not for me.'

Pol reminded me of a deer we'd accidentally cornered once in the caves, breathing sharply, his bony shoulders twitching. ‘What have I done?' he cried. ‘Every blessing I have ever sought now stands before me and I am speaking like an idiot. Oh, this is justice! For I have mocked the gods and now they mock me. The pride! The folly! Rabindra, my friend, why didn't you strike me for speaking as I did? My beloved Cindy, why do you stand there sobbing when you could dash my brains to the ground with a suitably selected stone? Oh ye Gods, why sit there laughing when you have lightning at your disposal, one flash of which could resolve my arrogance into ashes? Forgive me Rabindra. Forgive me Cindy. Forgive me, you heavenly graces. All of whom I have horribly abused.' He looked up at the rock. ‘It is no accident that we are here. For this is where pride perishes, where arrogance dies, where turtles are slain.'

‘Okay, you've had a tiff,' said Martina, as Pol began to climb the rock. ‘Don't worry about it. Cindy, talk to him.'

But Cindy had turned away and I was momentarily speechless.

‘I wished only to penetrate the veil of illusion,' said Pol, slipping a little. ‘I didn't care about aeroplanes, wives or England. But she came anyway. And in her love there was no veil.' He slipped again. ‘No pretence, delusion or purpose beyond the simple fact of being. It was there and I couldn't see it.'

‘Pol,' I said at last. ‘I forgive you. And if you look at me you will see that I am no longer sneering.'

‘I am glad,' said Pol, scrabbling up to a ledge. ‘But the gods demand their price.'

‘Do you remember that sage, when we were children,' I asked, ‘who declared that the only fitting home for a disciple of Shiva was the very top of his rock? And do you recall how a stray dog dropped a bone one morning in the playground? And how we played with that bone until we were called to lunch? And how our revered teacher fetched his anatomy book and contemplated it before taking a party of elders to pick up the rest of the bits?'

‘The sage was right,' said Pol, peeking over the ledge. ‘In the end we must throw everything to the gods.'

‘He probably just dozed off for a moment,' I called as Pol disappeared again.

‘I have amends to make,' replied Pol. ‘In this life and the next. However long it takes. Even if I have to come back as a worm, life upon life, slithering blind, trodden on by careless feet or burned in the belly of a bird. We have often spoken of destiny,' he said. ‘Well, this is mine.'

It seemed to me that in the interests of friendship I ought to go after him. ‘It seems to me,' I said, ‘that in the interests of friendship I ought to go after him.'

‘Maybe,' said Martina, ‘but you might want to check that out.' She pointed towards the village where a thin tendril of smoke was billowing upwards. ‘It seems to me,' she said, ‘like something's on fire.'

11

While my sisters on fire
would undoubtedly provoke a great deal of shouting, I thought them unlikely to produce quite so much smoke. As I reached the village, gasping for breath, the sounds had become deafening and the plumes of black fog almost impenetrable. I stopped, clutching my chest, to see that the fire was in fact coming from a large black car parked in front of the barricade. Perhaps even more astonishing was that somebody was dancing on top of it. For a moment I thought it might be one of my sisters but couldn't imagine them dancing so wantonly, even on fire.

Swearing profusely, Mike was sprawled across the bonnet of another car, struggling with two burly men in grey suits. Two other men, also in grey suits, were rocking on their heels as a fifth man, dressed in a black suit, white shirt and maroon cravat, exhorted them to ‘shoot the bitch'.

Several villagers had fetched fire-extinguishers from their respective homes, bought the previous year from Bister's Domestic Emporium, only to squirt a feeble spit of congealed paste over their shoes and trousers. Malek was responding to complaints with a vehement discourse on the finer points of warranty agreements. As I pushed to the front of the barricade, a fleeting gap in the smoke revealed the dancer to be Sharon, bare feet spurning the flames, hair spinning as she turned.

‘What happened?' I asked Dev who had remained comfortably ensconced on his chaise longue, tucking into a packed lunch.

‘Oh, I don't know,' he said through a mouthful of roti. ‘The usual.'

‘My revered brother, I would not describe an English woman dancing on the roof of a burning car as the usual.'

‘Well, not here, I suppose. But in England it's perfectly normal. I'm not sure why, I don't think anybody does, but every second Sunday of the month, especially in the more fashionable quarters, ladies set light to cars and jump about on top of them. It's a bit startling at first, but you soon get used to it.'

He had that half-smile he sometimes wore when he teased me.

‘But these men in grey suits,' I said, ‘are surely no ordinary phenomenon. And while I can accept that such people are common in certain parts of India and possibly even elsewhere, nobody in this village, so far as I know, has ever worn lizard skin shoes.'

‘Ah,' said Dev. ‘That's where you're wrong. They're not lizard skin shoes. They're fake lizard skin, which are much more expensive because fake lizards are harder to catch.'

‘Please,' I said, getting exasperated, ‘that's enough cultural induction for one day. My burning question, no pun intended, is what are they doing here?'

He took a bite from a spinach bhaji and chewed thoughtfully. ‘These are good,' he said.

‘Dev!'

‘Alright, let me think. Our beloved sisters, having poured petroleum spirits over themselves, were hugging each other, grim-faced and slightly hysterical. Father was shouting, obviously. In fact everyone was shouting, mostly asking them to move away from the stalls. Mr Chatterjee was trying to bore them into submission by rambling on about the all-too-often underestimated perils of setting light to yourself. At one point he seemed to be arguing that this was contrary to vegetarianism but frankly, I'd lost his thread by then. I must admit I started to get a bit irritated by the whole kerfuffle and seriously considered putting a bloody match to them myself.' I looked for the smile but couldn't find it. ‘But then I had another thought which, I have to say, in that particular moment was marginally more compelling.'

‘Which was?'

‘Research.'

‘Your devotion is an example to us all,' I muttered.

‘Well, you know how it is,' he said, poking around in his box. ‘Vocation isn't a question of personal whim. It's the innermost throb of our spiritual being. And, so far as my spiritual being was concerned, I can tell you, I was beginning to feel the distinct onset of a throb.'

‘And how did you resolve this dilemma?' I asked.

‘I wouldn't call it a dilemma,' he said. ‘More of a choice.'

‘But presumably you went to the clinic since our sisters, from what I can see, remain unconsumed by flames.'

‘Really, Rabindra,' he said, fishing out the emerald hemisphere of a sliced lime, ‘I took you for a better diagnostician. That one thing is the case doesn't necessarily mean the other is.'

‘Then please tell me, my revered brother who is a Doctor and has been to England,' I entreated, ‘who are these people, why did they come here, how has this car come to be on fire and why is Sharon dancing on top of it?'

‘Questions, questions,' said Dev. ‘You have always been too curious for your own good. But alright. There I was, on the one hand summoned by vocational impulses. “Dev, Dev,” they were saying, “I am waiting for you, carefully concealed under some judiciously placed papers in the top drawer of your desk”. On the other, an opportunity to finally shut my sisters up. But before I could decide, these black cars roared in. For a moment I thought they would strike my sisters,' he sighed. ‘But the two girls, suddenly fearful for the lives they had only moments before reduced to the hollow semantics of an infantile gesture, screamed, dropped their cans of petroleum spirits, and jumped to safety. The cars skidded to a stop in front of the barricade. Then these men got out.' He studied the lime, wistfully.

‘And?' I prompted.

‘You know what this needs?' he said. ‘A couple of ice-cubes and a bit of research. Boy, those bhajis dry your mouth out.'

‘Please, Dev,' I insisted. ‘Before you go for more research, enlighten me as to recent events.'

‘Oh. Okay.' He shrugged. ‘Well, everyone went berserk, you know, waving their vegetables, scrambling over each other. Then the chap in the cravat pulled out a gun and fired into the air. So everyone stopped. Then he mumbled something to the men in grey suits, one of whom ran into the hall while two others dashed round the back. Shortly afterwards, they all came out holding that fellow in the crumply white jacket.'

‘Mike,' I said.

‘Well, yes, whatever. Anyway, this “Mike” was thrashing around with considerable vehemence, but it didn't seem to bother the men in grey suits who picked him up and threw him onto the bonnet of the car. Then the man with the cravat started shouting at him.' The lime made Dev's face pucker.

‘Can you remember what he said?'

‘That is so refreshing.'

‘Dev?'

‘I don't know. I wasn't really listening. Something about a deal, and where they might be able to obtain some tart. Mike said he didn't know. But all the bakers rushed forward until the man fired his gun again. Then he said a lit cigar in Mike's eyeballs might help him remember.'

I obviously looked startled because Dev smiled at me. ‘Don't worry,' he said. ‘I doubt he'd waste a good cigar on somebody's eyeballs. In any case, at that moment the hall doors flew open and out came this rather large man with a pony-tail, clutching Sergeant Shrinivasan's Rudra Veena, pursued by the Sergeant himself howling something about sacred instruments and family heirlooms. Then the man with the pony-tail hit the man with the cravat over the head with said sacred instrument. One of the men in grey suits jumped on the man with the pony-tail and for a while I couldn't see much because of the dust. You know, this definitely calls for further studies,' he added, nibbling at the peel.

‘What happened then?' I prompted again.

‘Well, they wrestled around for a bit. Dust, obviously. More shouting. A couple of dogs got involved, you know how it is. If you look closely, you'll notice that one of the men in grey suits is keeping his rear quarters towards the car.'

‘Did nobody intervene?'

‘Well, Sergeant Shrinivasan tried to arrest the man with the pony-tail for cultural vandalism but dropped his handcuffs in the frenzy and retreated sobbing. Father said the Sergeant ought to arrest the man with a cravat though he didn't say on what grounds, sartorial ostentation perhaps. By this time, however, two of the men in grey suits had managed to hold the man with the pony tail while the man with a cravat got to his feet and proceeded to thump him numerous times in the stomach and around the head.'

‘And then what? Dev? What happened after that?'

He tossed the lime aside, and began to rummage in his lunchbox again. ‘Oh, I don't know,' he said. ‘The man with a cravat pointed his gun at the man with the pony-tail and asked him if he had any last requests. The man with the pony-tail stopped wriggling for a moment and said if the guy from the Clinic was around he wouldn't mind a little something for his fish phobia.' Dev shrugged. ‘Then the man with a cravat hit the man with the pony-tail who fell to the ground.'

‘Where is he now?' I said.

‘Behind the car, you can't see him from here.'

‘Was he hurt?'

‘Hmm. Let me think. He was struck on the head with a hard implement as a consequence of which he remained motionless. Six years of medical studies, eighteen sets of exams, two years as a registrar, numerous academic papers and a professional life dedicated to clinical research would lead me to posit a strong possibility that, yes, he was hurt.'

‘I suppose he must have been,' I concurred, feeling a bit foolish.

‘Then the man with a cravat pointed his gun at the man with the pony-tail and said “eat lead, sucker”.'

‘He said that?'

‘No, but it would have been elegant under the circumstances.'

I could feel my heart thumping. ‘And then?' I squeaked. ‘Did he shoot him? Is Hendrix dead? The man with the pony-tail, is he dead? What happened? Dev, please tell me!'

‘Well, something quite funny. Although, when I say funny I mean it in the English sense of odd. The doors to the hall opened once more and out came this blonde, shapely and, I must say, rather attractive English woman.'

‘His wife,' I said. ‘That's his wife. She must have been distraught. Did she run towards him, screaming and shouting?'

‘No, not at all,' said Dev. ‘In fact, quite the opposite. She was very quiet and rather stately, twirling her arms in the air, shoulders back, flicking her hair from side to side as her bare feet touched the ground, soundlessly, with a kind of infinite grace.' He stopped for a moment.

‘Dev?'

‘Ah, yes, sorry. Well, she stopped over there, near the cars, with that dreamy look people have sometimes when they're about to die and you're filling in the forms. By which time everything had gone quiet. Even the dogs stopped barking, although one or two took advantage of the hiatus to sniff each other's bottoms, I guess that's dogs for you. Everyone stared at her. Not a bird flew. Not a fly buzzed. And although she wasn't looking at anything in particular, you had the feeling, somehow, that she was looking at you. Not even at you. Through you. Into you. Further than you could ever look yourself.

‘She walked towards the man with a cravat who stepped slowly backwards, eventually coming to a stop. Everyone gathered round until she stood, quite still, in this curious circle of calm.

‘Then she climbed up on the car. The cigar dropped from the mouth of the man with a cravat and a tiny lick of blue flame curled from its tip, spreading out like an ephemeral flower, a shimmering bouquet of incandescence. The woman began to stamp her feet as the flames gathered speed, sweeping towards the car. She lifted her arms in the air. Then whoosh. In a single ecstatic eruption, that no doubt reflected how most of the men were feeling at that moment, the car burst into flames. Everyone jumped back. Even the man with a cravat. But not the woman, who just gazed around with a serene smile on her face. And that's where she is now, turning unconcerned as the fire feeds its rage with rage, like Father at the non-appearance of an earlier-requested condiment. Though not for long, I suspect.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because the car's about to explode. Once the tank gets it, the whole thing goes up. Kaboom.' He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Now that'll be something.'

I found Hendrix behind the car, smoke blustering in all directions. The heat made my face tighten. He was quite motionless.

‘Hendrix?' I said. ‘It's me, Rabindra.'

‘Huh?' He opened an eye. ‘Jeez, dude, don't hog the bong.'

‘You're alive!' I said, my eyes smarting with joy or smoke, it didn't matter.

‘Is that your professional opinion?'

‘I could, if you wish, seek confirmation.'

‘I'll go with yours,' he said. ‘Where's the wife?'

‘She's dancing on the roof of a burning car.'

‘I've told her not to do that,' he said.

‘Then it is true?' I said. ‘In England this is a common practice?'

‘Rabindra,' he smiled, ‘I'd hate to see you change.'

A sudden loud bang made me flinch. Hendrix struggled to sit up.

‘No, no,' I said, ‘you mustn't move until we have assessed your injuries. If you have been unconscious it might be the case that you have concussion. Tell me, do you feel slightly nauseous, is your vision blurred, do you have a strange sensation that you might not be quite real, and is it difficult to remember the last few moments of your life?'

‘Stoned again,' he sighed.

There was another loud bang. I stood up to see the man with a cravat aiming his pistol at Sharon who was laughing at him.

‘Oh my goodness, he's trying to shoot her,' I said.

‘Robby,' said Hendrix, coughing violently, ‘do you mind if I call you Robby?'

‘Under the circumstances you can call me anything you like.'

‘Would you mind asking her to get off the car?'

The man with a cravat took another shot as I hurried round. He evidently missed since she remained where she was, fingers curling the smoke into ribbons, her feet drumming ferociously above the sound of screaming villagers.

‘Mrs Shiver!' I called. ‘I fear that remaining where you are may be to your ultimate disadvantage.'