Hillstation

by Robin Mukherjee

  ‘Questions, questions,’ said Dev. ‘You have always been too curious for your own good. But alright. There I was, on the one hand summoned by vocational impulses. “Dev, Dev,” they were saying, “I am waiting for you, carefully concealed under some judiciously placed papers in the top drawer of your desk”. On the other, an opportunity to finally shut my sisters up. But before I could decide, these black cars roared in. For a moment I thought they would strike my sisters,’ he sighed. ‘But the two girls, suddenly fearful for the lives they had only moments before reduced to the hollow semantics of an infantile gesture, screamed, dropped their cans of petroleum spirits, and jumped to safety. The cars skidded to a stop in front of the barricade. Then these men got out.’ He studied the lime, wistfully.

  ‘And?’ I prompted.

  ‘You know what this needs?’ he said. ‘A couple of ice-cubes and a bit of research. Boy, those bhajis dry your mouth out.’

  ‘Please, Dev,’ I insisted. ‘Before you go for more research, enlighten me as to recent events.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, everyone went berserk, you know, waving their vegetables, scrambling over each other. Then the chap in the cravat pulled out a gun and fired into the air. So everyone stopped. Then he mumbled something to the men in grey suits, one of whom ran into the hall while two others dashed round the back. Shortly afterwards, they all came out holding that fellow in the crumply white jacket.’

  ‘Mike,’ I said.

  ‘Well, yes, whatever. Anyway, this “Mike” was thrashing around with considerable vehemence, but it didn’t seem to bother the men in grey suits who picked him up and threw him onto the bonnet of the car. Then the man with the cravat started shouting at him.’ The lime made Dev’s face pucker.

  ‘Can you remember what he said?’

  ‘That is so refreshing.’

  ‘Dev?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t really listening. Something about a deal, and where they might be able to obtain some tart. Mike said he didn’t know. But all the bakers rushed forward until the man fired his gun again. Then he said a lit cigar in Mike’s eyeballs might help him remember.’

  I obviously looked startled because Dev smiled at me. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I doubt he’d waste a good cigar on somebody’s eyeballs. In any case, at that moment the hall doors flew open and out came this rather large man with a pony-tail, clutching Sergeant Shrinivasan’s Rudra Veena, pursued by the Sergeant himself howling something about sacred instruments and family heirlooms. Then the man with the pony-tail hit the man with the cravat over the head with said sacred instrument. One of the men in grey suits jumped on the man with the pony-tail and for a while I couldn’t see much because of the dust. You know, this definitely calls for further studies,’ he added, nibbling at the peel.

  ‘What happened then?’ I prompted again.

  ‘Well, they wrestled around for a bit. Dust, obviously. More shouting. A couple of dogs got involved, you know how it is. If you look closely, you’ll notice that one of the men in grey suits is keeping his rear quarters towards the car.’

  ‘Did nobody intervene?’

  ‘Well, Sergeant Shrinivasan tried to arrest the man with the pony-tail for cultural vandalism but dropped his handcuffs in the frenzy and retreated sobbing. Father said the Sergeant ought to arrest the man with a cravat though he didn’t say on what grounds, sartorial ostentation perhaps. By this time, however, two of the men in grey suits had managed to hold the man with the pony tail while the man with a cravat got to his feet and proceeded to thump him numerous times in the stomach and around the head.’

  ‘And then what? Dev? What happened after that?’

  He tossed the lime aside, and began to rummage in his lunchbox again. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘The man with a cravat pointed his gun at the man with the pony-tail and asked him if he had any last requests. The man with the pony-tail stopped wriggling for a moment and said if the guy from the Clinic was around he wouldn’t mind a little something for his fish phobia.’ Dev shrugged. ‘Then the man with a cravat hit the man with the pony-tail who fell to the ground.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ I said.

  ‘Behind the car, you can’t see him from here.’

  ‘Was he hurt?’

  ‘Hmm. Let me think. He was struck on the head with a hard implement as a consequence of which he remained motionless. Six years of medical studies, eighteen sets of exams, two years as a registrar, numerous academic papers and a professional life dedicated to clinical research would lead me to posit a strong possibility that, yes, he was hurt.’

  ‘I suppose he must have been,’ I concurred, feeling a bit foolish.

  ‘Then the man with a cravat pointed his gun at the man with the pony-tail and said “eat lead, sucker”.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘No, but it would have been elegant under the circumstances.’

  I could feel my heart thumping. ‘And then?’ I squeaked. ‘Did he shoot him? Is Hendrix dead? The man with the pony-tail, is he dead? What happened? Dev, please tell me!’

  ‘Well, something quite funny. Although, when I say funny I mean it in the English sense of odd. The doors to the hall opened once more and out came this blonde, shapely and, I must say, rather attractive English woman.’

  ‘His wife,’ I said. ‘That’s his wife. She must have been distraught. Did she run towards him, screaming and shouting?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Dev. ‘In fact, quite the opposite. She was very quiet and rather stately, twirling her arms in the air, shoulders back, flicking her hair from side to side as her bare feet touched the ground, soundlessly, with a kind of infinite grace.’ He stopped for a moment.

  ‘Dev?’

  ‘Ah, yes, sorry. Well, she stopped over there, near the cars, with that dreamy look people have sometimes when they’re about to die and you’re filling in the forms. By which time everything had gone quiet. Even the dogs stopped barking, although one or two took advantage of the hiatus to sniff each other’s bottoms, I guess that’s dogs for you. Everyone stared at her. Not a bird flew. Not a fly buzzed. And although she wasn’t looking at anything in particular, you had the feeling, somehow, that she was looking at you. Not even at you. Through you. Into you. Further than you could ever look yourself.

  ‘She walked towards the man with a cravat who stepped slowly backwards, eventually coming to a stop. Everyone gathered round until she stood, quite still, in this curious circle of calm.

  ‘Then she climbed up on the car. The cigar dropped from the mouth of the man with a cravat and a tiny lick of blue flame curled from its tip, spreading out like an ephemeral flower, a shimmering bouquet of incandescence. The woman began to stamp her feet as the flames gathered speed, sweeping towards the car. She lifted her arms in the air. Then whoosh. In a single ecstatic eruption, that no doubt reflected how most of the men were feeling at that moment, the car burst into flames. Everyone jumped back. Even the man with a cravat. But not the woman, who just gazed around with a serene smile on her face. And that’s where she is now, turning unconcerned as the fire feeds its rage with rage, like Father at the non-appearance of an earlier-requested condiment. Though not for long, I suspect.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because the car’s about to explode. Once the tank gets it, the whole thing goes up. Kaboom.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Now that’ll be something.’

  I found Hendrix behind the car, smoke blustering in all directions. The heat made my face tighten. He was quite motionless.

  ‘Hendrix?’ I said. ‘It’s me, Rabindra.’

  ‘Huh?’ He opened an eye. ‘Jeez, dude, don’t hog the bong.’

  ‘You’re alive!’ I said, my eyes smarting with joy or smoke, it didn’t matter.

  ‘Is that your professional opinion?’

  ‘I could, if you wish, seek confirmation.’

  ‘
I’ll go with yours,’ he said. ‘Where’s the wife?’

  ‘She’s dancing on the roof of a burning car.’

  ‘I’ve told her not to do that,’ he said.

  ‘Then it is true?’ I said. ‘In England this is a common practice?’

  ‘Rabindra,’ he smiled, ‘I’d hate to see you change.’

  A sudden loud bang made me flinch. Hendrix struggled to sit up.

  ‘No, no,’ I said, ‘you mustn’t move until we have assessed your injuries. If you have been unconscious it might be the case that you have concussion. Tell me, do you feel slightly nauseous, is your vision blurred, do you have a strange sensation that you might not be quite real, and is it difficult to remember the last few moments of your life?’

  ‘Stoned again,’ he sighed.

  There was another loud bang. I stood up to see the man with a cravat aiming his pistol at Sharon who was laughing at him.

  ‘Oh my goodness, he’s trying to shoot her,’ I said.

  ‘Robby,’ said Hendrix, coughing violently, ‘do you mind if I call you Robby?’

  ‘Under the circumstances you can call me anything you like.’

  ‘Would you mind asking her to get off the car?’

  The man with a cravat took another shot as I hurried round. He evidently missed since she remained where she was, fingers curling the smoke into ribbons, her feet drumming ferociously above the sound of screaming villagers.

  ‘Mrs Shiver!’ I called. ‘I fear that remaining where you are may be to your ultimate disadvantage.’

  I glanced across to Hendrix who was nodding at me encouragingly. ‘Maybe a bit simpler,’ he said.

  ‘The Lord Shiva,’ cried Mrs Dong unexpectedly, ‘has returned!’

  ‘The Lord Shiva!’ cried various voices.

  ‘To slay the Turtle,’ continued Mrs Dong pointing at the man with a cravat.

  Sharon turned her face to the sky. The man with a cravat cursed under his breath and took aim.

  ‘Mrs Shiver!’ I shouted. ‘There is a man with a cravat pointing his gun at you.’

  As the man with a cravat fired, Sharon leaped into the air. For a moment she seemed to hover there, suspended on pillows of smoke, before dropping behind the car.

  ‘Bitch! Shit! Bloody Bitch!’ said the man with a cravat, shooting wildly in her general direction. I noticed that Hendrix was resuming his struggle to stand, though without much success. Sharon, meanwhile, appeared briefly through the smoke, blonde hair flying as she twirled in frenzied circles. The man with a cravat fired again. The villagers flinched again. Hendrix managed to get to his feet albeit bent double. And then the car exploded.

  Personally, I was only aware of a dull percussive thud after which everything went oddly quiet. At the same time, the ground beneath me seemed to evaporate as the sky, cars, smoke, flames and people spun into free-fall. I saw Hendrix staring up at me and wanted to say, ‘Hey, look at me I’m flying’, but my short trajectory ended rather abruptly in a bruised heap beside the other car.

  Whether anybody else was shouting or screaming I had no idea. A flake of soft ash floated down in front of my face. Behind it, a dense swathe of black particles drifted to and fro giving the otherwise invisible air a kind of shape and seeming purpose. In its own way, I thought, it was really quite pretty.

  ‘Are you okay?’ said Hendrix, leaning over me.

  ‘What happened?’ I said.

  ‘It exploded.’

  ‘Sharon?’ I said.

  ‘No, the car,’ said Hendrix.

  ‘I mean, is she alright?’

  ‘I know,’ he chuckled. ‘She’s fine. Can you stand?’

  ‘I think so.’ It was only when I got to my feet that I realised Hendrix’s bent posture was all he could manage for the moment.

  ‘I’ll be okay,’ he said. ‘It’s just my ribs.’

  ‘I have an ointment, used primarily by athletes, which has proved most efficacious in the treatment of numerous complaints especially those related to feet which are, of course, a crucial asset in the athlete’s physiological repertoire.’

  ‘Once you got it, you never get rid of it,’ said Hendrix cryptically.

  The ball of flame that had driven most of the village to its knees had dissipated to reveal a scene of pitiful devastation. The ground was scattered with smoking debris and sprawled villagers moaning softly as they clutched their heads. One of the men in grey suits was sitting, dazed. Two others were curled up, sobbing. The man with a cravat lay close to the remains of his car, mouth moving, a crimson stain weeping slowly through the white cotton of his shirt. Pale slivers of smoke curled from burning embers lodged in the barricade. The only cheerful note in all this was Sharon, sitting on the shoulders of the Buddhist Cook, propped up with a little help from Mrs Dong and some of the younger men, the propriety of whose hand-positions I thought questionable.

  ‘The Turtle,’ cried Mrs Dong, rapturously, ‘is brung to heel and prepare for slaughter.’

  Sharon laughed.

  The man with a cravat moved a little, the pool of blood under his leg shimmering a flare from the burning car. I knelt beside him.

  ‘Man with a cravat,’ I said. ‘You must try to keep still.’

  ‘Urgh,’ he answered, wiping feebly at the shard of metal protruding from his chest.

  I would have preferred to inspect him in my little office with all of its resources. Still, one didn’t have to look up ‘bleeding’, since bleeding is one of those happy ailments wherein cause and effect are the same, and the cure is simply to stop it.

  ‘I’m afraid I shall need your cravat,’ I said.

  He nodded weakly as I removed it from his neck and tied it round his thigh. It seemed to do the trick. With the bleeding stemmed, I could examine his chest more thoroughly, tugging at the piece of metal until I’d worked it loose. It came out quite easily in the end, along with a good deal of blood. Fortunately, the injuries to his head were only superficial, though some nasty lumps were beginning to form. I took his pulse and told him that in my opinion he was a little too portly for comfort and ought to think about his heart, particularly in view of his stressful occupation. He said thank you.

  ‘However, I’m still worried about your thigh,’ I added. ‘Especially if the femoral artery has been severed although, on the bright side, if that were the case you won’t have time to develop coronary problems. I suggest you remain here while I call my brother who, you may rest assured, is a Doctor and has been to England.’

  The chaise longue was upturned and smouldering. Nearby were the remains of Dev’s lunchbox and a forlorn shred of nibbled lime. ‘Dev?’ I called, beginning to panic. ‘Dev where are you?’

  Mr Chatterjee staggered over, breathing through a fold of his shawl. ‘You call for your brother in vain,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘He’s dead? Please, tell me it isn’t so.’

  ‘No, no, it’s alright, Rabindra, by this I do not mean that he has expired. On future occasions you may call him with a more satisfactory response. To the word “Dev”, he will answer, “yes, Rabindra, I am here” or by some such means acknowledge your request for his attention. Although I should remind you, as your father quite properly and not infrequently does, that the correct appellation, considering your respective statuses, and the fact that he has been to England and was honoured by the Queen, no less, God bless Her Majesty even though we kicked the thieving bastards out many years ago, still it has to be acknowledged they gave us the railways and sanitation, is “Mahadev”.’

  ‘You mean he’s here?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Honestly, Rabindra,’ chided Mr Chatterjee, ‘if only you had the patience to listen you would be availed not only of the information you seek but its subject. Since you deal with patients every day, it’s a wonder so little of that quality has rubbed off on you.’ He chuckled.

  ‘I know,�
�� I said. ‘Now please, tell me where he is.’

  ‘Well, by chance I happened to be standing next to him just before the car exploded, but soon realised that he wasn’t listening to a word I was saying. In fact he was rummaging around in his lunchbox. Then he glanced up with that far-away gaze characteristic of those who see perplexities beyond the grasp of ordinary mortals and muttered the word, “research”. I then proceeded to impart my long-held opinion that without those prepared, like him, to embark upon the very frontiers of knowledge, to sail the boats of their understanding, as it were, over the uncharted waters of ignorance in search of that rare and precious jewel of enlightenment…’

  ‘Then he’s at the clinic?’ I said. ‘Is that right, Mr Chatterjee?’

  But Mr Chatterjee was in full flow now, an island of understanding emerging from limpid waters of endeavour, verdant with unknown vegetation and possibly parrots, it was hard to hear above the noise. It worried me that by the time I reached the clinic, the man with a cravat, untended, might have expired. So I asked Mrs Jeenkal, who was nearby, if she would be so kind as to fetch my brother while I remained with the patient.

  ‘Fetch him yourself,’ she answered, to a chorus of malicious laughter. ‘What do you think I am, the Clinic Skivvy?’

  I noticed that Mrs Moodi, nearby, had set up an impressive display of sewing materials, along with cushions, curtain fabrics and men’s underwear behind which a slender lick of flame was beginning to play.

  ‘Mrs Moodi,’ I said. ‘Would it be possible to have the slimmest of your needles and a length of thread, preferably silk?’

  ‘Show us your money,’ she said.

  I fiddled in my pockets.

  ‘Ha!’ she said, ‘I knew it.’

  ‘This is a medical emergency,’ I said. ‘If you let me have these items as discussed, I promise to pay you at the earliest opportunity.’

  She tapped a notice above the display. ‘What does this say?’ she demanded.

  ‘‘‘Available In Other Colours”,’ I read.

  ‘“No Credit”,’ she retorted.

  ‘But Mrs Moodi, it distinctly says, “Available in other colours”.’