by Tahir Shah
The waiter had managed to conquer the set of rungs whilst carrying four plates on his arms. What seemed like the whole insect population of Rajasthan slithered out of the desert night and flopped onto the starched white tablecloth. Prideep squinted in the lamplight, and rolled his eyes. He filled his glass with crawling black creatures and turned it upside down to trap them. Osman told him to behave. After a while I gave up picking each wriggling shape from my mutton stew. The food had become more substantial at no extra charge. Osman was delighted.
* * *
Igor Singh led his camels to Hotel Paradise long before the sun had broken across the horizon. Prideep tried to wash pigeon droppings from his face in the blackness.
The two she-camels were very old. Igor kept kicking them to show their sturdiness. It was something which they did not appreciate at three A.M. We walked down through the town and out along a desert path. Igor Singh had no flashlight. When I gave him mine, he held it close to his chest, expecting it to become a gift. I held onto Igor’s shirt-tail, Osman clutched onto mine, with Prideep stumbling somewhere behind him. It seemed as if we were casualties of some horrific war, blinded by gas.
By the time streams of yellow light appeared from the sky, we were quite far from the city walls. The yellow sandstone of Jaisalmer stood invisible within the rays. Our band stopped every so often to drink water from a goatskin. The camels would sit, their legs turned inwards, and their giant lashes fanning over golf ball eyes. Their names were Unt meaning camel, and Qaisara, which means empress.
Igor Singh was a disciplined man who would let neither his animals nor his guests relax for long. Covering our heads with shirts, we swaggered with exaggerated movements towards the horizon. Osman read bearings from the compass, pretending that we were tracking treasure with a map. But we had no map. It struck me that our guide could easily slit our throats, steal our money and belongings and still return to town before breakfast.
It was odd that a Sikh should, firstly, be in Jaisalmer and, secondly, have a Russian first name. Igor began to speak, Osman translated his words so that I might understand the life of this peculiar man.
“My father came to Rajasthan between the world wars. He was sick of Russia, the country of his birth, so he escaped communism and he decided to live in India. He married a Punjabi girl who was working in Jaipur. After Partition and all the slaughter accompanying the splitting of India and Pakistan in the mid-1940s, they wanted to get away from people and so they moved to Jaisalmer. I was brought up here.”
“Do you speak Russian?” I asked.
“I am a mixture, so have all the advantages of a crossbreed.
I taught myself about my mother’s Sikh religion. And, as I am out here much of the time, it doesn’t bother me to wear a turban.”
Osman and Prideep climbed on Unt’s back and I was offered Qaisara. The she-camels groaned as we ascended. I was immediately gripped by motion sickness. Qaisara’s gait made it like riding in the wispy shell of a boat through rough sea. Prideep was thrilled by the new experience. Enjoying his adventure away from Mumbai, from time to time he reminisced to Osman, and speculated on the gossip which our trip must have provoked.
Qaisara sighed, I guessed in relief, as her parasite population seeped onto me. And, by early afternoon, there was nothing in front of us, and nothing behind, but sand. I had grown used to the idea of being in the Great Thar Desert: the novelty had quickly worn off.
We stumbled along all day under a sun which made our faces raw. My camel bags were at last in their native environment, much less of a burden to me, thrown over Qaisara’s bony back. I wondered for a moment if my grandfather’s expedition through the desert had been similar to mine. Perhaps one of his journeys had been across these very plains. Perhaps he, too, had gone in search of treasure in the Great Thar Desert.
There was no sign that it had rained in the desert. Thoughts of the camel drowning occupied me for at least an hour. Then, images of a chest brimming with rubies replaced those of floundering camels. My pace quickened and my mouth salivated with greed.
* * *
Osman began to shout. “I see People! People!”
Rubbing the sand from my eyes, I turned round 360 degrees. Still I could see no movement. Prideep leapt about as if suddenly illuminated. He and Osman embraced like old comrades reuniting.
“What the hell are you talking about? There’s nothing, you idiots!” I yelled, fearing that they had both finally cracked.
“There! Look over there!”
Osman placed his hand on mine and pointed. He was right. There, in the distance, was a tiny speck which looked like a flea, jumping about. Then others. My brain and all its contents seemed to have been erased. I could just about understand fleas and sand. The thought of a city or of driving a car seemed terrifying. Would I be able to live in western society again?
The specks grew bigger. They were not fleas, and dogs could be seen running about their feet. Was it Mandha, the place where Abdul lived? Yes, Igor assured us, it was.
Qaisara and Unt were given to a child to look after. Igor Singh led us to a group of desert folk. The men, each with a full beard and a face worn by the harsh conditions, sat in a circle around a smoldering campfire. The greetings were formal and drawn out. I prodded Igor to find out if Abdul was around.
“Tell me! Is Abdul the Warrior here?” Igor paused and parted his chapped lips.
“Yes, the Warrior is in Mandha.”
“Has he the treasure?”
“Yes, he has it at his house.”
“Could we go straight there?”
Yes, indeed we could.
Abdul the Warrior had the physique of a bear. His face was hidden by a massive black beard: only his great hook of a nose seemed to escape the bristles. His back was rounded, and his immense hands shot forward as I drew near. The Warrior pulled me to his chest like a long-lost son being welcomed by his father. He did not mention the treasure. I knew that it would be impolite to ask of it before we ate.
Dates were brought and straw-colored tea was poured into dainty cups. Abdul grinned ferociously, and sipped from the white china, which he held in his thumb and forefinger like an upturned thimble.
Three chickens had been roasted and buried in a bed of pilau rice. I fished for a leg. Abdul dug his hand into the mound of rice and threw a whole chicken across to me. He growled. I grasped at the bony feet and sunk my teeth into the breast. The Warrior seemed pleased and, rubbing his fingers into the thick mass of black bristle that sprouted from his face, he spoke. Everyone listened.
“You are friends of Yusuf Jahan?”
“Yes, Sir. He sent us to meet you. We traveled from the busy streets of Mumbai, across Gujarat and Rajasthan in search of you. The Dervish said that perhaps you might help us on our quest.”
Abdul stopped me as I spoke: he obviously had some advance information.
“I understand that you seek the great treasures of the world.”
“Yes, Sir.” I shifted apprehensively. “Do you have anything here that might be of interest?”
“You may see what I have, my humble possessions. I insist that you take any which are to your liking.”
Abdul signaled to one of his men who was weighted down by bandoliers and endless rounds of heavy-calibre ammunition. A tea-chest was carried in by two other men. My heart beat faster and faster. More dates were passed around. A pack of dogs began to bark outside.
Abdul reached for the chest. He elevatored the lid off. I rubbed the vision of rubies from my eyes, peering into the darkness of the box. Osman and I gagged at its contents. Prideep pushed us aside so that he, too, might see the riches. Abdul was pleased with our speechlessness. He delved his great fingers into the tea-chest and pulled out the most grotesque colored glass lampshade that I had ever seen.
A paraffin lamp was brought closer, and the Warrior ran his fingertips over an engraving.
“Can you read what it says?” he roared. I held the lampshade under the light and read out the leg
end:
“Made in Birmingham.”
Abdul the Warrior winced with delight and gasped, “Do you know how far away that is?”
“Yes, Sir. It is many miles from the Great Thar Desert,” I said.
“Would you like it?”
Abdul was prepared to offer it as a gift. There was silence. Images of sand and fleas danced around in my mind as I tried to string a set of words together.
“Aga-i Janab, Respected Sir,” I began, “you are a lucky man indeed to own such a valuable object. Fate favours us both, having extended great fortune to me also. For I already have an identical lampshade to this. It is destiny that has given us both such a wondrous thing.”
Abdul the Warrior had tears of empathy in his eyes. In the desert there is little beauty but there is a closeness and solidarity between all men. Abdul looked at Osman, Prideep and I, and said, very softly:
“My boys, stay here and live with me. It is my honour to be your host.”
SEVEN
Leaving the Nest
To the Red Hills, Lahugada,
Holy Lingo joined the Brothers
To those seven nice young women,
To the daughters of the Giant.
Sizzling lumps of mutton were borne towards us on a silver tray. The waiter glided beneath the crystal chandeliers and cornices of Delhi’s Gaylord Restaurant. His hair had turned white with years of servitude. Osman and Prideep howled like wolves, with uncontrollable joy, at the sight of food.
We had left Abdul the Warrior with his lampshade and desert life, and trekked back across the Great Thar to Jaisalmer once again. Then, after many hours spent jarring about at the back of packed local buses, we arrived in Delhi, the capital of India.
Osman had talked me into coming to Delhi, the city of his youth. He swore that, with his contacts and friends, there would be nothing to stop us finding antique treasures. Prideep agreed that we should have come straight to the capital in the first place. The two had bonded, become a gang and, although we were friends, they could never forgive me for dragging them to the single most unpleasant spot on earth.
In a moment of weakness I had promised to take them to Gaylord’s before even getting a hotel room. They were allowed to have all they could eat.
The waiter had become so bewildered scribbling down the order, that Osman made him note down the dishes they would not require. There were only three of those... brains masala, fried brains and boiled brains masala. I had made them promise not to order brains. They had looked sad for a moment but then had agreed.
Osman held a truffle cake in one hand and a mutton steak in the other and took alternate bites of each. The dining room had gone quiet. Waiters and guests, security guards in tin hats, and the chefs, stood around and watched the spectacle. My face took on the color of the crimson silk-covered walls and I pretended not to know my associates.
* * *
“Hey mister, change money? Something nice to smoke? Cute girl? Cheap flight? Want a room?”
“No, thank you. We have everything under control!”
The street corners of New Delhi are packed with agents. Rumour has it that if one wanted to buy General Motors, the place to set the contract, or at least find out the market price, is on Connaught Place, New Delhi. The loitering youths act as fixers, and can easily sniff out liars and time-wasters.
When lunch was over, we lugged our bags with us, trying to look as though we often strolled the streets so encumbered.
My camel saddle-bags, which were never an easy item of luggage to haul about, were cutting into my shoulder more than ever. So we rested, bloatedly, in a heap outside an exclusive jeweler’s shop. Prideep stared into the window and became hypnotized by a silver bowl, filled with glinting, gleaming gemstones. He prodded Osman and made him take a look. Mesmerized by riches, Prideep and Osman pressed their faces to the glass and panted heavily. When the window became clouded with the vapour, they slumped in silence on the ground beside me.
Just then, two Arab sheikhs, wearing the black-and-gold headbands of royalty, exited the air-conditioned jeweler’s shop. Dressed in immaculate Bedouin robes, they walked over to a stretch Mercedes limousine. And, three paces behind, followed their entourage of advisers, bodyguards, secretaries, hangers-on and bearers of numerous just-purchased gifts.
As the sheikhs prepared to climb into their vehicle, they glanced at the miserable heap in which Osman, Prideep and I were sitting. Our clothes were in tatters; our bodies were bathed in dirt and sand. The older of the two sheikhs said loudly to his friend, “You know, India really is quite an amazing place! Look at that young man sitting over there.” The entire group turned to me and stared. “He looks exactly like Sayed Tahir Shah!”
A few minutes later — still red with shame that my father’s close friends should have observed me in such a state — I was squashed between Osman and Prideep in a rickshaw, searching for a place to stay. The driver pressed his thumb hard on the horn and swung into the gates of the inimitable Special Number One Hotel.
Special Number One rose uncounted floors into the sky like a reared up, sprawling creature of the deep. Planned by idealists, the human element had overcome most of its utilitarian qualities. Its purposes now seemed to torment poor travelers with multiple forms and unnecessary paperwork.
I approached the reception desk, in the warehouse-sized foyer, already beset by a snaking line of dejected foreigners. They looked as if they were queuing for forgotten reasons, like people waiting in the bread-lines of Siberia. A cocky little man glared at me from the other side of the desk.
“Good afternoon. I would like to take two rooms please,” I said.
“Do you have a reservation?” The official straightened his tie, pulling his collar even further out of alignment with the rest of his garb.
“Yes, of course I have one. I made it by telephone several days ago. The name is Shah.”
A policy of lying often does the trick when faced by the clerk. And my last name is so common in India that there was a good chance of some Shah having reserved a room. Osman and Prideep seemed pleased with my boldness. The pockmarked face wagged violently from side to side, “Sir, we don’t make reservations over the telephone. We are full!” Having already lied, I decided to go further to capture the initiative.
“I also made a reservation for two rooms in writing.”
“Sir, we do not make advanced bookings of any kind. We have no vacancies. You will have to leave!”
The whip-hand calmness infuriated me. I pulled a note from my back pocket and slipped it to the official as covertly as the situation allowed. Again the head shook from side to side. This was officialdom of the worst kind — no-hope bureaucracy — which is its own reward: so pure as to be unbribable. I tried staring him out, while the people at the head of the queue gazed almost indifferently at me. After what seemed an age, the clerk’s eyes crossed; he said that maybe after six hours we could get a room.
Six hours turned into eight hours and we were still waiting. The snaking line of demoralized travelers had sloughed layers of clothes. The humidity was almost unbearable. Osman went about shaking hands with servants and administrative staff, trying to press ten-rupee notes into their palms. No one took the bait.
After ten hours in the foyer, I was asked to pay large amounts of foreign currency in exchange for two room keys. I completed various multilingual forms in quadruplicate — it seemed more like a university entrance examination than registration at a hotel. All I could think of was taking a steaming hot shower.
We staggered with our possessions to the elevators, of which there were four. Only one worked. But as there was a power cut that was not functioning either.
Our rooms were on the top floor. Osman flew into a rage at having to climb the hundreds of stairs necessary to reach the accommodation. I was surprised that he did not adapt to the situation. I calmed him as best I could, saying that things had probably changed a good deal here while he had been in Mumbai. Usually he never stopped talking
of the benefits of Delhi. He was now consumed with embarrassment at the inaccuracy of his memory.
The receptionist had been away from three to nine P.M. Osman stormed over to the reception desk, where the man was torturing another hopeful. He stretched over the Formica and grabbed hold of the terrified bureaucrat.
“You bastard Baku, can come with us to the top!” he roared. “You must teach these people respect,” he told me, over his shoulder, shaking the clerk to emphasize the point. I wondered if there would be repercussions: but, at least Osman was back on form.
Our party climbed the stairs. It felt like the ascent of K2. The receptionist stumbled in front, his left arm clamped in a half-nelson, followed by Osman, who was sniggering sadistically, with Prideep and me at the rear. Our shadows flickered on the slime-covered walls. It seemed that no human had visited the uppermost floor in a long time. An enormous raven sat perched at the top of the stairs, a sinister omen of things which were to come. The bird croaked at our intrusion.
Osman’s captive lay slouched and panting on the top step. We moved over him like a column of soldier ants on the warpath. There was an eerie feeling to be so high above New Delhi. Probing about my room with uncertain footsteps, I was perplexed that such a haphazardly built structure could remain standing. For the first time in India, I was frightened. I put it down to the utter hostility of the accommodation, and its total lack of personality. Another raven marched back and forth on the window ledge. Its head moved at awkward angles, and for a moment I thought back to Blake and his vultures. Maybe he had sent this avian symbol of security to comfort me.
Osman had explained to Prideep that he would take him to all his old haunts. They would try to track down some girls he had once known. I was not invited to participate. Osman said that in the Old City he had a contact, more useful in my quest, who might be able to help. It was rumoured that the acquaintance had a warehouse full of Mughal jewels. Osman was not one to brag; his promises and contacts usually came through. Having put the negative experiences of the Great Thar to the back of my mind, I was determined to continue in pursuit of great riches.