Tiger Hills (61 page)

“Come, maava,” Baby urged. “Let us go pick some flowers. You and me together.”

He looked, then, at the photograph of Nanju that was hung outside the prayer room. His smiling, open face framed so incongruously, so cruelly with the garland of fresh flowers that marked the dead. Devanna's eyes filled with tears.

If Devanna was silent the house, on the other hand, was filled with music. Sheets of it, swinging, thumping, twirling through the rooms. Appu seemed to play the gramophone without a break, as if this false gaiety would somehow compensate for the silence. “Baby, get dressed,” he would call. “We're going to the Club.”

At first Baby had thought her husband strangely stone-hearted. When the terrible news had arrived, Appu had not shed a tear. Devi had, for once, seemed at a complete loss; it was Appu who had called for the barber to shave his and Devanna's heads; it was Appu who had sent the servants to the Nachimanda village and beyond, bearing tidings of the tragedy. It was he who had made the travel arrangements to visit Bombay. All the while dry-eyed, almost offhand.

It was weeks later when Baby had woken with a start. At first she had not been able to place the sound. A muffled choking. Had she imagined it? No, there it was again, that strange, smothered noise coming from the bathroom. She tapped on the bathroom door—“Appu?”—and when there was no reply, she had entered. He was leaning against the mirror, arms wrapped over his head. “Appu?” she had repeated, and he had turned toward her. It had taken the breath from her, the look on his face. Such a hunted, hopeless expression, the look of a man who had searched within himself and recognized that something was irreparably lacking.

“Appu,” she said softly again, and he had shaken his head. “Here, darling, here,” she said, pressing forward and slipping her arms about him. That strangled sound again, and Appu began to cry. She covered his face with gentle kisses, on his lips, his neck, his forehead, that shaven head, then led him back to their bed. He had put his face in her lap, like a child, and wept so bitterly she thought her heart would break.

“Nothing … ” She bent forward, the better to hear what he was
saying. “I did nothing. I should have called him back, should have insisted … I did nothing, Baby, once again
I did nothing.
”

Finally he had fallen asleep. The next morning it was as if nothing had happened. When she tried to talk with him about it, he whistled even louder, drowning out her words.

He had not spoken of Nanju after that.

The Indian hockey team left for the Los Angeles Olympics. Appu contrived to be at once absorbed in their progress. “I knew it!” He pumped his fist in the air, listening closely to the wireless broadcast of the finals. “Ah, Dhyan, Dhyan, what would we do without you!” He spoke the words almost reverentially. The four years since Amsterdam had scarcely blunted the prowess of the Indian team and his beloved Dhyan, it seemed.

“Appu,” Baby chided, glancing at the verandah where Devanna sat. “He might be asleep.”

“What, at ten in the morning? What's the matter with this bloody household? This is the Olympics, Baby. The
Olympics.
” He turned the volume even higher.

Baby glanced unhappily outside, but despite the racket Devanna did not so much as stir.

It was Tukra who finally intervened. “Devi akka,” he said, standing in the doorway of Nanju's room and twisting the ends of his dish cloth. “You must come down. This is not good. Devanna anna, he doesn't speak at all, his garden, he doesn't care anymore, he hardly eats, and the plants, look, just
look.
”

Devi blinked, taking in the garden as if for the first time. Where had all the flowers gone?

“You must talk with him,” Tukra repeated. “He doesn't talk to me. I ask him, ‘Shall I weed under the banyan tree, shall I rake the leaves?' and he doesn't even speak.”

“You have four children, don't you, Tukra?” Devi asked. Three girls and a boy; she had helped to get all of them married. “You are blessed,” she said simply.

“Nanju anna … ” Tukra's voice wobbled. “You still have a son.
You are Appu anna's mother,” he said tearfully. “You still have a son.”

Pain sliced through Devi, so sharp that the bile rose in her throat. She pressed her forehead against the window. That last terrible exchange of words …
Watching Appu sleep, Avvaiah,
Nanju had accused her.
Not me, never me, but
Appu.

Devi flinched as she remembered. “Not true,” she whispered. She squeezed her eyes shut, conjuring an image from the past. Nanju kunyi, asleep in the nursery. Both her boys, swaddled safely in their dreams.

All that came forth was a confused medley of images. The light from the oil lamp spilling about her feet, casting spirit shapes upon the windows and wooden rafters. The tiger snarling from the wall. An owl, hooting low and long somewhere in the night. And there, look, her sons. Brothers both, lying sound asleep. There was Nanju, curled in a ball …

And right here, Appu. Arms flung wide and smiling at some dream, his dimple so deep it made her want to cry.

“Iguthappa Swami,” she used to pray, unable to take her eyes off him, “keep him safe. Take me, take whatever else I have, but spare me this child.”

Watching Appu sleep, Avvaiah. Appu.

Devi's eyes flew open. “I watched over you too, kunyi,” she whispered, anguished. “I watched over you too.” A light breeze flitted through the windows, making the curtains billow. Devi shivered.

That night too, Devi barely slept, but as dawn broke she at last gathered up her hair, left so long unbound, and fastened it into a bun. She opened the door and, clutching the balustrade as if she might lose her balance, went downstairs. The house was silent, a thin gray light seeping through the rooms.

Pausing by the old photograph, she touched her fingers first to Machu's face, then to the baby on her lap.

She had asked Baby once, soon after the news arrived. “You told
me you see those who have passed on, that they reveal themselves to you,” she said tersely. “Have you seen my Nanju?”

Baby had slowly shaken her head.

“I knew it!” Devi had turned toward the garden, a fierce light in her eyes. “He isn't dead, he cannot be.” For if he were, she had reasoned, surely his spirit would have found a way to return home?
It's like breathing,
he had said to her, that was what Tiger Hills had meant to him. Abruptly the light had died from her eyes, as she recognized the absurdity of her hope.

She lay her palm now over the photograph.
Nanju kunyi.

Devanna was on the verandah, slumped as usual in his chair. She seated herself beside him as shadow melted into light and the parrots in the banyan tree began to glide down to the grass.

“Forgive me,” she said then, her throat tight.

“He had your smile.” His voice was rusted, hollow. “You always said he looked just like me, but it was your smile he had.”

“Devanna, I—”

“It should have been me. Not him. Me.”

Devi's eyes filled with tears. “You?
I
was the one who said those things and drove him away.”

He turned to her with haunted eyes. “Should I hate you, Devi? For saying those things? Or should I thank you for keeping the circumstances of Nanju's birth from him all these years? I was the one responsible for his birth; I am therefore responsible for his death.

“‘I am poured out like water,'” he quoted, his voice so raw it seemed to cut into her, “‘and all my bones are out of joint. My heart has turned to wax; it has melted away within me.' He was the distillation of all that was good in you and in me. If he too is gone, then what's left? What's left but these sorrowing bones?”

Birds began to throng the garden, barbets and sweet-voiced koels, filling the estate with song.

“You're forgetting something,” she said huskily. The sun began to move in the east, staining the clouds rose. “You have
another
son. Appu. He needs his father. If you give up like this…You… ” She paused, fighting back her tears. “Devanna,
we
have another child.”

He started to cry then, soundlessly, tears streaming down his cheeks, the tic in his hands so pronounced he didn't even attempt to wipe them away.

They sat down to breakfast that morning, all of them together at the dining table. Devi pulled out her chair and hesitated. Then, instead of at her usual place at the head of the table, she sat in Nanju's chair instead.

“Appu,” she ordered, to mask the sharp stab of pain even this simple action had wrought, “stop dawdling and drink your coffee before it grows cold. And turn down the gramophone, for goodness' sake. Is this a home or a hotel?”

Baby thought he might object, but Appu grinned. “Yes, Avvaiah,” he agreed, getting up at once, the relief obvious in his voice.

In the summer of 1934, Gandhi came to Coorg. Despite the sweltering sun, the crowd that turned out to hear him speak was nearly ten thousand strong. He talked almost exclusively that morning of the lower castes. How heinous a notion it is, Gandhi said, the concept of untouchability. That a man may or may not be granted entry somewhere just because of his birth. In God's eyes, all are one …

Some months later, Timmy Bopanna approached Appu at the Club. “Have you considered running for office, Dags?”

“Politics and me?” Appu chuckled. “My dear chap, have you paid no heed at all to the politicos of today? One needs to be clad in a loincloth and weigh no more than a hundred pounds to be taken seriously.” He shook his head. “Politics and me, you must be joking.”

Timmy smiled. “Not quite such a far-fetched notion, I'd wager. Gandhi is only the face of the nationalists, Dags. The austere, humble hook that reels in the votes. Behind the curtain—ah, it's a stage filled with people like you and me.” He leaned forward to make his point. “Educated. Cultured. From old established
families, of a certain …
standing.
” He gestured about the billiards room, lowering his voice. “When the English leave, to whom do you think they will entrust the reins of government? Homespun nationalists? Or men like us, men of the world who can smoke a cheroot with them and talk to them as equals?”

Appu clicked his fingers for the waiter. “Another gin.” He turned amused eyes on Timmy. “And why ever would we want to meddle with all that?”

“Because,” Timmy said slowly, “money without power gets awfully dull. The old days are gone, Dags. You and I, we each come from some of the most venerable families in Coorg, but nobody gives a damn. It's all this nationalistic rubbish—landowner and worker, both equal. Bloody nonsense. And it'll only get worse, mark my words. Unless people like us stand up and fight for what is rightfully ours.

“Look what happened after Gandhi gave that speech. Our temples, thrown open! And this is only the beginning,” warned Timmy. “If we don't stand up for what is ours, we stand to lose all of Coorg.”

Appu was unconvinced. “Come, Timmy. Nothing of the sort will happen. Never mind money without power,
you
are the one being awfully dull.”

Timmy flushed. “What's the matter with you, Dags? Don't you want to make a name for yourself ?” He gestured again at the smoke-filled room. “Is this enough for you then? Well, it certainly isn't for me.” Rising to his feet, Timmy walked away in a huff.

Appu looked around him as he nursed his gin. The same old room, hardly changed through the years. The billiards table, the velvet curtains. Glasses tinkling, women laughing. He thought of Kate. Where was she, he wondered, the wanton Mrs. Burnett? He had been in the billiards room, hadn't he, when he first spotted her? Suddenly restless, he downed his drink in one swallow and clicked his fingers at the waiter. “Another.”

“Dags!” someone called to him from across the room. He pretended not to notice. At least that KCIO fellow, that Kipper Cariappa chappie, was not here this evening. He was in Coorg for
a month's holiday, and Appu kept running into him at the Club, him and his blasted Staff-College-graduate, army-man, KCIO stuffed shirtedness.

Don't you want to make a name for yourself ?
Timmy had asked incredulously.

MY father,
Appu thought blackly to himself,
was a tiger killer. An army hero…
His thoughts trailed away, the prick of superiority that they induced not lasting long.

“Make a name for yourself,” if you please. Suddenly he longed to be far away, where, he didn't know, just away from all these clowns. “Dags,” someone called again. With a muttered imprecation, Appu drained his drink, slammed the glass down on the side table, and strode to the bar.

“Even if we wanted to get into politics, where would we begin?”

Timmy turned around, a satisfied expression on his face. “Ah,” he said, “I'm glad you asked.”

“The Viceroy?” Devanna asked, astonished. “The Viceroy, here in Coorg?”

Appu nodded. The family was gathered in the library before dinner. It was a new ritual begun on Appu's insistence—“a little music, Avvaiah, some civilized conversation.” He reached for an LP record, blowing on it as he slipped it from its cover.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “The reigning Viceroy of all of British India, his importantness Lord Willingdon, or Lord Willie Ding Dong as some of us have, with the utmost affection, christened him. The word is that he may be convinced to visit Coorg. I suggested to the chaps at the Club that we should build a hall in his honor in Mercara. Get him to inaugurate it, they do seem to love that sort of thing, these fellows.”

“And if he does come… ”

“Well, if he does come, then we host him at the Club and press our case for renewed coffee subsidies and a railway link from Coorg to the rest of the state.”

Devi looked, startled, at her son. Since when had he started worrying about coffee subsidies?