Tiger Hills (36 page)

Gordon Braithwaite, one of the largest planters in Coorg, was astounded at the yield that Devi had realized. “Coffee King no more,” he said ruefully later that evening at the club. “I believe the honor this year goes to a rather winsome local. Coffee
Queen,
that is.”

Jealous heads turned all over Coorg in her direction. That girl Devi! Went to Mincing Lane, to talk with the white folk herself. Did she have no sense of propriety? It was no wonder that she had got such a high price—what man could resist a woman shaking her breasts at him?

Tayi tried to make her grandchild see reason. “Why must you openly defy convention, kunyi?” she asked, distressed. “You are not a child anymore, but a grown woman. Spare a moment to think of us, and what we must feel when we hear you talked about so.”

“Oh, Tayi. People will talk no matter what,” Devi said impatiently.

“You have to live in society, remember that, and so do your near and dear.”

Devi laughed.

“You have become hard, my sun and moon,” Tayi said sadly.
“Do not make yourself so brittle that a single touch should make you shatter.”

“Not hard, Tayi. Strong.” Devi thought again of the Kambeymadas, the humiliation of having to beg for Devanna's rightful share. “In this life, if one is not strong, people will trample you underfoot. One has to fight for happiness. For one's dues.”

Chapter 23

A
nother,” Machu called, and the scruffy server promptly placed another pot of arrack in front of him. He tore into the mutton chop garnished with red onions and chilies and, washing it down with a draft of the strong spirit, belched pleasurably. At least the food at the shack remained as good as it had always been.

The English had their velvet-curtained club; the Coorgs frequented the palm-frond-thatched shack that lay at the entrance to Mercara. The old woman owner ran it with a canny hand. She knew to keep a continuous supply of potent, home-brewed arrack coming to her customers, while at the same time keeping their stomachs filled with generous helpings of dosas, masala chops, and chicken-liver fry to take the edge off the liquor. Machu took another swallow of the arrack, feeling it burn along his veins. Coming to the arrack shack was the one bright spot in this otherwise misbegotten day.

After weeks of coming home empty-handed, he had downed a brace of rabbits and a young deer that morning. He had skinned the game, and his wife had hung the meat over the hearth to cure in the smoke of the kitchen fire. Machu had brought the skins immediately into Mercara to sell. It had not gone well. “Ten rupees,” the buyer had said, an air of finality about him, and no matter what Machu said, he would not budge.

Ten measly rupees—what would that buy them? Game had been scarce all this season. These days, without land to call his own or a job with the government, it was hard for a man to care for his family. Ten rupees. Cursing under his breath, Machu lifted the pot of arrack to his mouth again.

“Machu! Ayy, Machu!” He turned toward the acquaintance approaching him. “What's this? Not four in the afternoon and you've already begun?” The man slapped him on the shoulder, laughing. “No matter, whether in your joy, or in your sorrow, whichever the case might be, I'll keep you company.”

“Yes. Win or lose, we shall booze,” Machu said wryly, and the man guffawed.

He shook his head when Machu told him about the sale. “Too difficult, everything is too difficult these days. How is a body to manage? Paddy prices are next to nothing and coffee yields are still low. By the way,” he griped, “heard about that woman Devi?”

Machu grimaced. He had. Many times.

But not to be deterred, the man launched into yet another account of how Devi had managed to get unheard-of prices at Mincing Lane.
Not today,
Machu thought to himself. Not with the disappointment over the skins compounding the financial worry that seemed to hang constantly over his head. Today, the very mention of her name cut deeply.

He had married well, Machu knew. His wife was virtuous and dutiful, her devotion to him written all over her pretty face. What more could a man possibly want? And yet, it was someone else who haunted him, dancing tantalizingly through his dreams. “What is it?” his wife would whisper as he jerked awake, night after night. “Do you want some water?” Machu would say nothing as he lay there, staring blindly into the night, and then he would reach for her, pulling her toward him. He would take her, with a force born of desperation, a passion that rendered him spent.

And yet it lingered, the pungent after-odor of loss.

He tilted the pot of arrack to his mouth, drained it, and threw it to the floor. “Enough,” he said to his companion, cutting him short as went on and on about coffee prices. “If I hear another
word about coffee, or the Nari Malai estate, it will be one word too many. So I don't have any land. You think I regret it? Not for an instant.”

“I never—” protested his companion, but Machu wasn't listening.

He rose, steady on his feet despite the arrack sloshing about his insides. “You think I cannot provide for my family? Watch this. Ayy.” Summoning the server, Machu dipped his hand into his pocket and drew out the ten coins from that morning. Picking off one, two, three, four,
five
coins, he dropped them with a flourish into the palm of the stunned boy who promptly prostrated himself at the feet of his benefactor.

“Get up, get up,” Machu said irritably, and then struck by a sudden notion, he raised his head proudly and began to chant.

Be blessed and listen O friend, listen to this singer's song

In the depths of these jungles, in this wild heartland

A tiger roamed fiercely hungry all day, all night long.

He chanted the tiger song, his eyes fierce, as if recalling something irrevocably lost. The timbre of his voice lent a wild, untrammeled beauty to the words, rendering the occupants of the shack into silence. And then, struck by the absurdity of it all, Machu started to laugh. He stopped just long enough to nod good-bye to his companion. “Watch, just you watch,” he called, making his way down the steps of the shack.

About a month before, Machu had been approached by one of the men for whom he hunted. They were looking for good men to join the army, the Englishman had told him, why didn't Machu consider it? At the time, Machu had brushed the offer aside. Leave Coorg? Never.

But now, it seemed to make sense. Squaring his shoulders and lifting his head to the sky, Machu made his way to the local garrison.

Even when the effects of the arrack wore off, Machu knew he had made the right decision by enlisting. It had been the sensible
thing to do. “New beginnings,” Machu said to himself, as he fastened the regulation breeches. “New beginnings.”

Nonetheless, it was difficult to leave, especially to bid his son farewell. Appu looked up at him, his brown toddler eyes questioning. “When will you come back?”

“Soon, monae, I promise.” He hugged his son to his chest. “Take care of your mother,” Machu told him. “You will look after her while I am gone, yes?”

Appu nodded solemnly. “When you return, I want toys. Lots of toys.”

Machu grinned, the dimple flashing in his cheek. He scooped Appu into his arms, swinging around and around with him until the child squealed with laughter.

He looked fondly down at his wife, stroking her hair as she clung to his chest and wept. “Come now. What is this foolishness? I will come back soon, will I not? Now tell me—the sari that I shall bring you, what color would you like?”

That afternoon, Machu was very quiet as he and the other new recruits filed past the Coorg border toward Mysore. He took a deep breath, saturating his lungs with the jungle smells of mulch and game he had loved all his life. The sky was overcast with clouds, his ancestors crowding and tripping over themselves to bid him farewell. A flock of herons took silent wing, launching themselves into the air from some secret, paddy-covered fell. Machu watched, a catch in his throat, as the birds swept low and languid over the column.

He was leaving it all behind, everything he held dear.

It was time, however. Time for all of them to move forward.

Machu was assigned to the 20th Lancers in Madras. Not two weeks later, he found himself standing stiffly to attention, staring straight ahead at the wall in front of him. It had been painstakingly whitewashed, all the better to show off the medals that were hung on it. Squares, stars, circles, ovals, and rectangles, all mounted proudly upon velvet and displayed in glass cases. The
heat of the plains pressed in from the open windows, wrapping itself around him. The tamarind trees outside were perfectly still, mynahs wilting from its branches. There in the distance, the bass note of the sea as it boomed against the shore. Sweat beaded Machu's spine under his khaki shirt, coursing maddeningly down his back.

“So,” Major Climo said to him, “you are a renowned hunter, I hear. Killed a tiger using only a sword?”

Machu's Hindustani was still rusty. “Yes,” he flatly replied.

“That will be ‘Yes, sir' to you, soldier.”

“Yes … sir.”

“We are lucky to have you it seems.” The Major took off his glasses and, blowing once on each lens, began to polish them. “And you are privileged to be part of the Twentieth Lancers. We are a proud division, Sepoy Machaiah. One of the finest.” He gestured at the wall behind him. “Sudan. South Africa. Cambodia. These medals you see? There are more. Our officers and men have earned a Victoria Cross, two OBEs, and five MentionsIn-Despatch. Wherever we have traveled, we have held our heads high and struck terror into the hearts of our foes.
Sabse achha.
The finest, soldier, we strive to be the finest.

“And how do you think we have achieved this exemplary record? Discipline. Through all the tasks that might not be to our liking. Why, you see this very wall, how white it is, despite the sea air? It is whitewashed every Saturday. Each and every Saturday, without fail. Discipline, soldier.”

Machu's eyes flickered briefly over the brilliant whiteness of the wall, but his face remained impassive. Major Climo was continuing. “It is part of your duties as a soldier with the Twentieth to care for the officer you are assigned to. You are to draw the water for his bath, turn down his bedclothes at night, lay out his kit in the morning, and see to it that his shoes and belt are polished to a shine. And what's more, you will take pride in it, soldier.”

A muscle twitched in Machu's jaw. This was not why he had joined the army. A soldier was meant to fight, to wage war, to live and to die with his head held high. Where was the soldierliness,
the honor, in scraping the boots of another?
No,
he had refused that morning,
I am no servant,
and Major Climo had summoned him to his office.

The Major put his glasses back on and looked at Machu. “So. Which will it be, then? Do I have you thrown in the stockade for insubordination, or are you going to see reason? Come now, soldier. You are more of a man than this pettiness would indicate.”

Machu said nothing.

“So. We have decided, then.” The Major became brisk. “I have assigned you to Lieutenant Balmer. You should be proud to be his batman.”

Machu snapped his heels to attention, startling the mynahs on the tamarind tree into a brief, breathless flurry of motion. Saluting the officer, he marched from the tent.

Climo's words impressed themselves on him, but it was not easy. Discipline, he told himself, discipline, but sometimes when he lay awake in his barracks, humiliation arose in him like dank, rotting scum afloat upon a forest sinkhole. His fists would curl in disgust. How far he had fallen. The tiger killer, reduced to doing the work of a menial.

Then Machu would remind himself of the reason he was there. He would think of his wife, the stiff shoulders of his son as they had waved him good-bye.

At least Lieutenant Balmer was a good lad. He treated Machu with a curious mixture of deference and authority, acknowledging the stiff-backed pride of the older man while conducting himself with a dignity that impressed Machu in spite of himself. He had once asked Balmer how old he was, and had shaken his head in amazement. Only twenty-two? Ayappa Swami!

Balmer had smiled. “Why? I am hardly younger than most of the officers here.”

Machu shook his head. “You must be very good indeed, to be leading so many men at such a raw age.”

That night, Machu lay awake mulling over the lieutenant. It all came down to education, he decided. Look at Devanna, he had almost become a doctor. A
doctor.
Machu still remembered in what
high esteem he had been held by the family. He grimaced in the darkness. Why, even Devi had chosen … Devi.

A memory floated unbidden into Machu's mind. They were lying on the floor of the arbor, her eyes limpid and smiling from their lovemaking. A sudden breeze rustled through the laburnum trees, shaking free vast handfuls of petals that spiraled down toward them. Devi sat up, running her arms in wonder through the swirling yellow. The petals fell thickly upon her hair, layering her upturned forehead and outstretched arms, sliding thickly over her bare breasts, till she seemed to Machu like a wood sprite, something other-worldly, carved from the trees themselves. She had turned to him and said something in English. “What?” Machu asked, startled, and she laughed merrily.