Hillstation (7 page)

‘But your father could always order another lot…?' I had said, chewing.

‘That is not the point,' he had replied. ‘I have become attached, and with attachment comes misery.'

After which he ate no more. For several weeks, whenever I went to see him, his sisters told me he was overcoming an attachment to fig-based confectionary and was too depressed to see anyone. He emerged, eventually, looking pale but redeemed.

‘Well, that was just figs,' he said. ‘A momentary excitation of the taste buds. But this is every sense at once. And not some fleeting anxiety that the object of my affection is finite, but a burning desire to possess her completely in every way imaginable for ever and ever. Rabindra,' he looked at me gravely, ‘I have never been so happy nor so desolate at the same time.'

‘You're in love,' I said, recalling some of the things Dev had said about it. ‘Which is wonderful, surely.'

‘Yes, perhaps. Who can say?' He giggled suddenly before looking miserable again.

‘And what colour were her eyes?' I asked.

‘I don't know.'

‘Did you look into them?'

‘Of course.'

‘But you saw neither form, colour, nor even the eyes themselves. For there was only the infinity within.'

He stared into space, contemplating the wonders of that which cannot be described.

‘Right,' I said. ‘Now listen to me for a change. This morning, just about every young man in the village, not to mention plenty of older ones who ought to know better, came to the clinic to catch a glimpse of my beloved. How long, do you think, before they start sending letters of introduction, photographs, flowers, and family delegations to suggest alternatives to the Clinic Skivvy and his low-born friend?'

‘But the gods…' said Pol.

‘Yes, I know the gods sent them,' I said, waving him to silence, ‘But there are more than gods in this world. There are also demons, devils, snakes and bits of mischief left over from previous universes to thwart even the best-intentioned acts of providence. Think about it. Is Pushkara not awash with handsome bachelors sporting athletic torsos and regular incomes who could point disparagingly to the mere food and board that I receive as recompense for my labours? Are there not high-caste families with first-borns, second borns, distant relatives in the city and other sundry familial adjuncts gagging for matrimony? Even as we speak, demons are whispering into the ears of our brides that they've inadvertently turned up at the behest of Pushkara's least eligible sons.'

‘How can you be sure,' he interrupted morosely, ‘that it was not demons who brought them here?'

‘I cannot,' I said, walking to the door and turning to face him. ‘But there's only one way to find out.'

It took us several attempts to reach the lobby, during which we found ourselves back at the first room at least twice. But at last we heard the voices of Malek Bister and Mrs Dong from the end of a corridor.

‘These my rates,' she was saying, ‘always been.'

‘That's not what it says on your bloody sign marked “Room Rates”,' said Malek.

‘Them local rates,' she said. ‘These tourist rates.'

‘You've never charged tourist rates,' he spluttered.

‘Never had tourists. So noborry ask. These my rates. You like it or they go lumpy somewhere else.'

Pol led me past the lobby to the reception lounge.

‘Oh, look,' said the lady with blonde hair. ‘It's another one.'

‘What does he want?' asked a man with hairy hands kneeling over a large box on the floor. He had a wispy grey beard covering much of his face, and hair drawn back over small patches of pink into a pony-tail.

‘I don't know,' said the lady. ‘Ask him.'

‘You ask him,' said the man. ‘I'm busy.'

‘What if he don't speak English?'

‘They all speak English,' said the man.

‘Yeah,' she said. ‘Bit weird that.'

‘The Raj,' said the man.

‘Oh hello, Raj,' she said to me.

‘No, I mean it's cause of the Raj they all speak English.'

‘So he's not Raj?'

‘No. Well, he might be. I don't know.'

‘I knew a Raj,' she said. ‘From Oldham. Big bloke.'

‘My name is Rabindranath,' I said. ‘And I blaze eternally in the heavens.'

‘That's nice for you,' she said, flicking a glance at the man.

‘For your information, our prodigious facility in the English patois,' I said, showing it off a little, ‘is consequent upon historical circumstances. Several generations ago, there came to reside among these fragrant peaks a gentleman in receipt of an education from a most illustrious establishment, far away from here, in which English was the prescribed means of linguistic intercourse. Being of a pedagogic inclination, he established our first school and decreed that the vocabulary and grammar would proceed henceforth according to the modus in which he was proficient. And so it came to be. His successor continued likewise, and then his. Now, not to be disingenuous, the usage of, let us say, more indigenous dialects is considered to be indicative of a somewhat vulgar predisposition even among the plantation workers. It is never to be encountered among the literati, cognoscenti or intelligentsia.'

‘I thought you said they spoke English,' she said.

The man with hairy hands snorted and stood up. Across his stomach was the stretched image of a half-bearded face with curly hair and a headband, possibly him, I thought, in his younger days. Helpfully, his name was emblazoned beneath it.

‘Mr Hendrix,' I said, ‘it is a pleasure to meet you.'

‘Huh?' he said.

‘Pol! Pol!' A woman's voice trilled from the door making me jump and turning Pol suddenly rigid.

She wore khaki slacks and a light cotton top stitched with flowers of yellow and pink, her crimson hair knotted loosely in a white flannel turban. ‘Where have you been?' she cried, ‘leaving me all a-moody and a-broody without my little sugar pops? Shal, I borrowed your shampoo, is that okay?'

The blonde lady shrugged.

The red-haired lady hurried over to Pol in a way that made me think of the goat-woman shortly before she attacked me. ‘You're not to leave me,' she said pinching his cheeks, ‘ever again. I was all alone.' She turned to Hendrix. ‘Isn't he just the cutest, wootest little spice-popsicle ever?

‘Whatever you say,' said Hendrix, coiling a roll of black cable over his arm.

‘And who's this?' she said, nodding to me.

‘Hang on,' said the blonde lady. ‘He told us. What was it? Raj? No, it was…'

‘Rumplestiltskin,' said Hendrix.

‘Rabindranath Sharma,' I said. ‘At your service.'

‘Oh, they're all just so
sweeeeet
!' said the red-haired lady, squeezing Pol so hard he lifted off the floor.

‘So, do we get tea or anything?' said the blonde lady, lighting a cigarette. ‘You know? Cuppa tea?'

‘I think Mrs Dong's talking to Mr Bister,' said the red-haired lady, breaking into giggles.

‘This can't be real,' said the blonde lady, reaching for an ashtray.

‘I see that you are not unfamiliar with the central precept of our philosophy,' I remarked, smiling.

They all stared at me for a moment.

‘So what about that bald bloke with the orange kind've… whatsit,' said the blonde lady, ‘I thought he did the tea and stuff.'

‘He's out front,' said Hendrix, kicking at the box. ‘Eight cables. I'm down to eight sodding cables.'

‘Doing what?' said the blonde lady.

‘I believe, he is keeping the crowds away from the door,' I said.

‘Oh, I love it,' said the red-haired lady, clapping her hands.

‘So what about Lazy Arse, where's he at?' said the blonde lady.

‘Got the jips,' said Hendrix.

‘Oh,' said the blonde lady. ‘So what about Marty? Is she any better?'

‘I think she got something at the Doctor's,' said the red-haired lady.

‘Some daft twot in a crap-hole clinic gave her tablets,' sneered Hendrix. ‘Didn't even know what they were. Said she hopes nobody gets seriously ill around here.'

The reason my head began to throb as the floor took on a sponge-like texture was not the result of his obvious misrepresentation of what Martina might have said about me, but the fact that she was there, in the doorway, draped in a long silk robe with purple dragons across the front, their fiery tails sweeping down the copious folds of her sleeves.

‘Oh, hullo,' she said to me.

‘You know him?' said the blonde lady.

‘Yeah, he's the Doctor,' said Martina.

Hendrix rummaged noisily in his box.

‘Them tablets helped,' said Martina.

‘Oh, Doctor I'm in trouble,' sung the red-haired lady.

‘Leave it out, Cin',' said the blonde lady.

‘It pleases me that you are feeling better,' I said, with a little bow.

‘Boom boody boom…' sung the red-haired lady.

‘Cindy!' said the blonde-haired lady, sharply.

‘Have you all introduced yourself?' said Martina. ‘Yes? No? Is anyone talking?'

‘I'm Cindy,' said the red-haired lady. ‘You can call me Cin'. Everyone does. Cin' by name…'

‘Moving on,' interrupted Martina. ‘This is the Doctor. Like I said. Ah…'

‘Rabindranut,' said the red-haired lady.

‘Something like that,' said Martina. ‘The old git with the toolbox…'

‘As they say,' said the blonde lady.

‘Goes by the name of Brendan.'

‘Or Hendrix,' said Hendrix with a wink, smiling at me now.

‘And I'm Sharon,' said the blonde lady, flatly, ‘Sharon Shiver. You can call me Shal. Shall I, shan't I, blah blah.'

‘Then you are indeed at home,' I said. ‘For we have many among us who go by that name'.

‘What, “Sharon”?' said Hendrix sceptically.

‘Shiva,' I said. ‘It is one of our most honourable nomenclatures. Generally, it is bestowed only upon first-borns and then only in the best families.'

‘Well, fancy that,' said Sharon, stretching her legs out.

‘Hey Pol,' said Hendrix. ‘If you've got a minute, I reckon we could use a drink around here.'

‘I'll ask Mrs Dong if she can prepare some tea,' said Pol, quietly.

‘I was thinking, maybe, something a bit more… you know…' said Hendrix.

‘God's sake, Bren,' said Sharon. ‘It's not even lunchtime.'

‘Yeah, but I been working my arse off.'

‘We've all been working, honey,' said Cindy.

‘Like washing your hair's working,' snorted Hendrix.

‘Making myself beautiful,' she said, stroking it.

‘You're right,' said Hendrix, ‘that is a lot of work.'

‘Alright,' said Martina, ‘everyone's a bit tense but Mike's on his way. So any grouches, like he said, take them up with him.'

‘And what could there possibly be to grouch about in this lovely, lovely place?' said a hoarse but somehow authoritative voice from the door. Mike strolled in with a commanding air, nodding to Hendrix, bowing to the ladies and frowning at me. He stopped in the centre of the room as one might upon whom lives hang.

‘Which is where exactly?' said Sharon, holding up a guide book.

‘Uh,' said Mike, ‘I can explain that.'

‘Go on then,' she said.

‘It's um… well, you know…' he said, fumbling in his pocket and glancing towards the window. ‘Some of these books and stuff, they… you get what you pay for.'

‘It has long been the case,' I said, ‘that we have lacked cartographical recognition. In fact, this has been a source of chagrin to many generations of elders.'

‘It's just squiggles,' said Sharon, jabbing at a fold-out map at the back of the book.

‘Which does not mean that we're not here,' I said.

‘He's right,' said Mike. ‘First rule of here, wherever it happens to be, is that it's got to be somewhere.'

‘So how come it ain't mentioned?' said Sharon.

‘A good question,' I said, glancing at Martina who was studying her fingernails. ‘According to some historians, these hills were once occupied by violent Thugees. Anyone travelling through was therefore devoured, with the result that nobody ever returned home to speak of them. This included an unfortunate delegation from the British Royal Geographical Society. By the time the Raj had avenged their lost scholars, most of the maps had already been published with, as you say, just a squiggle of fanciful peaks in the area that is now Pushkara. Subsequently, anyone turning up on the plains clutching a theodolite was told only that there was nothing up here worth looking at. And thus a squiggle we forever remained.'

I recalled the zeal with which my father had rekindled the flames of an ancient campaign. Although some elders disputed the notion that our ancestors were venous cannibals, pointing instead to some fragments of poetry that spoke of a ‘Princely Race among the snowy peaks', it was generally agreed that since it was in Pushkara that Shiva had slain the Demonic Turtle, we deserved at least some navigational acknowledgment if not inclusion in every school book in the land.

Father prepared and sent a lengthy dossier on the subject, along with extensive footnotes and appendices, to the All India Institute of Cartography, receiving an embossed reply shortly thereafter assuring us that they would deal with this ‘as a matter of urgency'.

A year later, after some polite reminders, they sent another letter, similarly embossed to say that they were, regrettably, unable to accredit a place without visual verification of its existence. And though they would have liked to visit Pushkara to see for themselves, attempting to do so would tacitly acknowledge the very existence that was in question. The letter went on to say that while Cartographers enjoy nothing more than finding hitherto uncharted portions of the planet, the pay of a government clerk was not so great these days and there was the matter of expense, especially in a rather difficult year after the death of his brother whose voracious, and it had to be said, ungrateful children he had taken on along with a sick sister-in-law.