Hillstation (32 page)

A small part of the man with a cravat's money went towards the purchase of a beautiful new Rudra Veena for Sergeant Shrinivasan to play once a month to packed houses. That he was merely accompanying a dance recital performed, in person, by the Lord Shiva herself might have contributed to the popularity of these events. Some of the elders grumbled that she removed a little too much clothing at times but, after some discussion, it was decided that as she was a god no impropriety had occurred. Gods and goddesses can happily go naked where ordinary mortals would cause embarrassment. Although Sharon never went quite that far, she did remove enough to attract an audience of younger men whose passion for matters metaphysical grew to an enthusiasm bordering on frenzy.

My brother Dev, who wasn't really a Doctor and had never been to England, suggested we rename our place of work the ‘Rabindranath Sharma Associate Physician Centre' but I said its existing name was more than adequate. He researched less and smiled more and seemed to take pleasure in opening the Pushkara Clinic every morning, standing at its threshold to greet the first patients who hurried in coughing, limping or scratching indecorously at some bodily adjunct. As Senior Porter, he provided valuable service though mostly I was just glad of his smile. At the end of the day, after we'd mopped the floors and scrubbed the instruments, he would regale me with stories of Madras as we walked home; his adventures, friends and the pretty nurses he had known.

Father remained rather quiet, spending many hours in the
Puja
Room talking to Mother. He took to eating without complaint, or at least complaints offered merely as suggestions. Both my sisters married the Buddhist Cook which caused a bit of a stir, although Mrs Dong assured us that it was perfectly proper according to the cultural protocols to which she subscribed. I was never entirely convinced by that, but they all seemed happy enough.

Although everyone enjoyed having Hendrix around, it was obvious after a few months that he was getting restless. He told me one evening that he'd known some dives in his day but nothing had prepared him for life in a cave. We were coming back from one of Mr Chatterjee's public discourses with the sacred tree. Hendrix had sighed and said that you haven't lived 'til you'd lived with a goddess but he ‘kinda missed the rock and roll. He said he'd visit again, obviously, and we hugged. He also said, ‘you guys need to keep quiet about that black goo down in the valley'.

‘Why?' I had said.

‘Trust me,' he said, patting my shoulder. ‘I'm a roadie.'

Otherwise, everything in Pushkara was much the same as it had been and, I suppose, would always be. The elders grumbled about the youth of today as the youth of today became the elders of tomorrow and grumbled in their turn. Many Sharons were born in those years, several Mike's and even a couple of Hendrixes. Cravats, meanwhile, in spite of numerous promotions at Bister's Boutique, sometimes undercut by Sergeant Shrinivasan, failed to catch on. Mahadev, though more Dev than Maha to me, was still the greatest of all gods, at least to the young ladies who swooned in his presence. Brahma's shoes were as speckled as ever, while Rama's cigarette stall remained a popular gathering point. Saraswati continued to move the dust around with her bundle of twigs, while Lakshmi made hats, and Indra sold tea from the streets of Pushkara to every deity under the sun. As for me, perhaps I was that sun. Hendrix had once said, ‘Nobody looks at the sun, cause it burns their eyes. But without the sun, nobody sees nothing. So, blaze on baby.' Which I suppose, in my humble way, I do.

And of Nurse Devi who had smiled at me on the stairs and blushed when our hands touched? Well, that's another story.

Copyright

First published in 2016

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© Robin Mukherjee

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