Hillstation (28 page)

‘Oh, the hall went up,' said Cindy.

‘It is ruined,' moaned Malek. ‘Everything is ruined. My son is ruined. My life is ruined. I curse this place. I spit on it.'

‘Let's just focus,' said Martina.

Having salvaged what they could from their merchandise, most of the stall-holders were now watching as the hall slowly crumbled, tongues of fire licking its hollowed remains while clouds of embers billowed out every time another piece of ceiling collapsed. The men in grey suits were sharing cigarettes with a few of the traders, accompanied by cups of chai from the chai seller who had a large, albeit surreally illuminated, smile on his face.

‘I've got an occasional table, thanks,' said one of them to Mr Kapra. ‘And I seriously don't need a chess set.'

Sharon, looking slightly bemused, was surrounded by mothers asking her to bless their children, and elders requesting elucidations on the finer points of Sanskrit etymology. Some of the younger girls wondered if she thought they were pretty enough to marry a film star, while men of various ages pressed her for an autograph. Sharon seemed to please them all somehow, blessing a baby, scribbling on pieces of paper, saying ‘what movie-star in his right mind wouldn't marry a lass like you', and, ‘what's Sanskrit when it's at home?'

‘Indeed,' muttered the elders. ‘What is Sanskrit when it's at home? What indeed is the home of Sanskrit? That is the question.'

‘Home is the heart of being,' said another. ‘For it is into homes that we are born, by our homes sustained, and at home, ultimately, that we find our final rest.'

‘Then it is being that is the heart of language. Why have we not thought of this before? How can one even begin to explore the linguistic roots of a verb until this is known?'

‘Which, once known, all roots are known.'

‘True it is that Shiva returns to lead his beloved to
moksha
.'

‘Could you make it out to Bou Bou?' said one of the young men.

At Martina's suggestion we laid Pol across an ice-cream wagon, in spite of Mrs Goli's protests that the sprawling of a low-born across her wares would render them inedible.Malek had run ahead to make sure that everything was ready in the clinic. However, since emotional fatigue forced him to stop every so often to re-light his cigar, we overtook him several times and arrived first. Mrs Bister, meanwhile, had taken to hitting herself with the saucepan, saying that it was all her fault, though I thought she was being a little harsh on herself.

‘Which way?' said Martina as we lifted Pol from the ice-cream wagon into the waiting room.

‘The surgery, ‘I said. ‘Opposite the picture of my brother with the Queen of England, from which you will gather,' I said encouragingly, ‘that there is no finer physician in all of Pushkara.'

But Dev wasn't in the surgery.

‘I expect he's scrubbing up,' I said as we laid Pol on the examination table.

‘He's had time for that,' said Martina. ‘Didn't he know we were coming?'

‘Yes, of course,' said Cindy. ‘I told him myself.'

‘What did he say?' asked Martina.

‘That he'd have to… I can't remember, read something or…'

‘Research?' I said.

‘Yeah, that was it.'

‘I'll fetch him,' I said. ‘In the meantime, prepare some swabs and antiseptic solutions. You will find them tidily arranged and neatly labelled on the shelf there. Also, you should remove as many of his clothes as won't compromise his modesty. And prepare hot water. There is a stove there and a tap. I see that Mrs Bister has kindly brought a saucepan, if you can wrestle it from her.'

‘Rabindra,' said Mrs Bister, struggling with Martina. ‘Please tell me this isn't happening.'

‘For once, Mrs Bister,' I said, ‘it is.'

Dev wouldn't respond to my knock although I could hear him inside: a light cough followed by the sound of plinking glass.

‘Dev?' I said. ‘You are needed in the surgery.'

‘Surgery shmurgery,' he answered.

‘Pol Bister is very badly injured and requires immediate medical attention.'

‘Never heard of him.'

‘He is the son of Malek Bister, founder of the Shri Malek Bister World-Renowned Arts and Entertainments Complex.'

‘Ashes,' he muttered as something fell over, possibly Dev himself. ‘Who gives a toss?'

‘Pol is my friend,' I insisted. ‘I would give several tosses for him.'

‘He's nothing,' said Dev. ‘A low-born piece of filth. Just don't tread on him or you'll soil your shoes.'

‘He isn't nothing to me,' I said. ‘But that's not the point. The point is, he's a person. And he has a life, whatever its status. In fact for that I wouldn't give half a toss. He's a sweet and gentle soul with whom I have shared many dreams. Please, Mahadev, my revered brother who is a Doctor and has been to England, unlock the door.'

‘Who said it was locked?' said Dev.

He was wreathed in a cloud of cigarette smoke, struggling to get back on his chair. In his hand was a specimen jar filled with amber liquid.

‘I am studying,' he said, perching the jar back on his desk, ‘precisely how much one has to consume before one no longer gives a shit. Now that's got to be worth a prize.'

‘It is surely yours,' I said. ‘Even now svelte ladies with Scandinavian accents are preparing themselves for the ceremony. But right now you are needed by a patient. And, believe me, revered brother, when I say right now, I do so in order to impress upon you its unequivocal urgency.'

He slouched back in his chair, fishing for a cigarette on the floor. ‘I don't know,' he said, ‘I expect you'll think of something.'

‘But this is why you mastered the arts of healing,' I insisted. ‘It is for this that you became a Doctor.'

He laughed. ‘Did you know that England is named after a medical phenomenon? The gland which produces the hormone “En”, vital for the regulation of certain cerebral functions, in particular a sense of the ridiculous.'

‘What's going on?' said Martina, elbowing past me into the office. ‘What the hell do you think you're doing?'

‘Phwoar,' said Dev.

‘I'll give you phwoar,' said Martina. ‘I'll give you a rocket up the arse. Rabindra, get him some coffee. Do you have coffee?'

‘The lady who usually makes it is at the protest,' I said.

‘Well, you make it,' said Martina. ‘You know how to make coffee?'

‘Not really,' I said.

‘What is it with you people? It's a cup of bloody coffee. I'll make it. Where's the stuff? The kettle? The coffee?'

I looked at her blankly.

‘Okay, I'll find it. Walk him round a bit.'

She stepped behind him and pulled the chair away. Dev fell to the ground, giggling.

‘On your feet,' she said. ‘Come on. Look at you. Call yourself a Doctor?'

‘I don't know,' he chuckled. ‘Everybody else does.'

‘Give us a hand,' said Martina.

We took a shoulder each and hoisted Dev upright.

‘Research,' he said, lunging for the specimen jar.

Martina swept it to the floor where it shattered in a pool of twinkling glass.

‘Oh,' said Dev, staring at it.

‘Get him into the surgery,' said Martina. ‘Slap him if you have to.'

‘That would not be appropriate,' I said. ‘He is older than me.'

‘Well, whatever,' she said. ‘Can you shake him?'

‘As long as it's done respectfully.'

‘Just get him in there.'

The surgery was now busy, mainly with elders who had gathered to provide a measure of supervision. Mrs Bister had relinquished the saucepan and was hugging Cindy. Malek, who now had the saucepan, was heating water on the stove.

‘How do I know when it's boiled?' he asked.

‘Put your finger in it,' answered Mrs Bister.

‘Though by no means a medical expert,' said Mr Dalliwal, prodding at Pol's thigh, ‘I would say this calls for amputation.'

‘You leave that bloody leg where it is,' shouted Malek, jumping around with his hand in the air.

‘I believe that Mrs Dong has an excellent knife ideally suited for the purpose,' remarked Mr Batti to Mr Dalliwal. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to fetch it.'

‘But this amputation business was my idea,' said Mr Dalliwal, ‘and therefore my role is not to perform menial errands such as fetching the necessary implements but to oversee the act itself.'

Malek ran his finger under the cold tap, breathing deeply.

‘But I suggested the knife,' retorted Mr Batti, ‘which represents a significant development of the proposal and therefore my proper place within the proceedings is of an equivalent stature.'

‘That looks horrible,' said Dev, clutching the instrument trolley for support. ‘I think I'm going to be sick.'

‘The Doctor is here,' announced Mrs Vemuganti. ‘Make way for the Doctor.'

‘Make way, make way' said Mr Choudhury, elbowing her aside.

‘That is precisely what I am saying,' said Mrs Vemuganti, indignantly. ‘You are now telling the person who first said “make way” to make way?'

‘Please,' I said. ‘Let my brother examine the patient.'

‘Well, that's nice,' said Mrs Vemuganti. ‘Being spoken to by the Clinic Skivvy. You might be a Brahmin, young man, but that doesn't give you the right to start bossing us about.'

‘Too late,' said Dev. ‘He's dead.'

‘No!' wailed Mrs Bister. ‘Mahadev, Shri Doctor Mahadev, please please please.'

Dev shook his head and pushed his way out of the room. I followed him.

‘Dev, I am no clinician, but it seems to me that someone who groans when you poke him cannot be dead.'

‘Near as damn it,' said Dev.

‘But surely there is hope for him?'

‘'fraid not, old boy,' he said warmly.

‘But could you not try?' I said. ‘If only to console his relatives?'

Martina came out of the back room with a cup of what I presumed was coffee. ‘Here,' she said. ‘Drink this.'

But Dev knocked it out of her hand. ‘Oops,' he said, giggling maliciously.

‘I don't care if he's older than you,' she said, ‘but if you don't slap him, I will.'

‘I cannot,' I said. ‘For it would be contrary to every protocol I have ever known. Even to look askance at an elder, or accidentally to brush one's foot…'

‘Then do it for me.'

I slapped him across the face.

‘That,' he said, ‘was surprising.'

Martina nodded. I slapped him again.

‘Is this going to be a long series of surprises,' said Dev, ‘by the end of which it will be less surprising but a lot more painful?'

I lifted my hand again.

‘What is this?' shouted Father from the entrance. ‘Rabindra, you will go to your room and stay there until suitable punishments can be devised. Never have I seen such a thing in all my life.'

‘I'm sorry, Father,' I said, ‘but I was merely attempting to nudge my brother out of his reverie.'

‘Then perhaps this will nudge you out of yours,' said Father, slapping me in the face. Although used to this form of rebuke, I had to agree with Dev that it stung horribly. ‘Now do as I say and go to your room.'

‘Of course, my illustrious Father,' I said. ‘But first we must tend to Pol Bister who, as you know, is horribly injured and may very well already be dead.'

Father glared at me. ‘You needn't worry about him. These low-borns are surprisingly robust. Considerably more robust than my patience, in fact. Do not compel me to repeat myself.'

Malek Bister came to the door, his finger wrapped in a damp cloth. ‘Excuse me,' he said quietly, ‘but is no-one going to help my son?'

‘Of course, someone is going to help your son,' said Father. ‘This is a clinic and clinics are places wherein people are helped, reputable parentage or otherwise, although in your case it certainly is otherwise. At the moment we are equipped to deal with most ailments, but once in receipt of the promised investment, there shall be no medical challenges we cannot meet in our modern, purpose-built facility boasting state of the art examination rooms, an operating theatre, pharmacy and telephone.'

‘What investment?' said Malek.

‘From our Bombay associates,' sneered Father, ‘who signed over the money shortly before their departure. Such funds to be allocated at the discretion of the Pushkara Worthy Causes Due To The Receipt of Unexpected Funds Committee, of which I am the Honorary Co-Chairman.'

‘Then what is my role on the committee?' asked Malek.

‘Don't be absurd,' chuckled Father.

‘But are we not going to rebuild the Hall?'

‘I believe,' said Father, drawing himself to his full height, ‘the operative term is “worthy”.'

Malek looked round at the surgery where Mrs Bister was caressing Pol's head. ‘Doctor Sharma,' he said, bowing solemnly to Dev, ‘my son is shattered into a thousand pieces.'

‘Make an appointment,' said Dev. ‘We're busy.'

‘You've had his answer,' snorted Father. ‘There is nothing wrong with your son that a few stitches and a little sugar-water cannot address. This is not a task for the incumbent physician who has more important things to do. Rabindra, you may see to it.'

‘But this is beyond my skills,' I said.

‘And mine,' whispered Dev, looking at the floor.

‘Right,' said Father, ‘I think we've stood around nattering for long enough. Mahadev? The Committee would like to discuss plans for the refurbishment of the Professor Sharma Centre for Clinical Excellence, in particular the sign outside. I suggested inlaid wood but some of the committee favoured brass. What do you say?'

‘Please,' said Malek, taking Dev's hand. ‘He is not the best of boys, nor the brightest perhaps, but he is my son. My only son. And you see his mother? She has never been so quiet in all her life. I beseech you, Doctor.'