Hillstation

by Robin Mukherjee

  ‘It says, “No Credit”, plain as daylight. Which means if you want something you pay for it.’

  I had long observed that the hardest people to argue with are those completely wrong. However, since Mr Vaisvarya barged me brusquely aside to inspect Mr Gupta’s cutlery stall, I decided to leave it there. It seemed an odd time to go shopping, although one or two of the villagers were striking bargains along the barricade. I found the man with a cravat surrounded by a small crowd led by Mrs Dong in a chant of ‘Turtle, Turtle’.

  ‘Let me through,’ I announced. ‘I am a Clinic Skivvy.’

  But when they parted it was only for Mr Vaisvarya, now in possession of a large carving knife which he handed to Mrs Dong.

  ‘Death to the Turtle!’ she shouted.

  ‘This ain’t gonna be pretty,’ said Hendrix hobbling up beside me.

  ‘They seem to think that the man with a cravat is the Turtle of ancient mythology,’ I explained.

  ‘Wrong place, wrong time,’ muttered Hendrix ominously.

  ‘But why did he come here?’ I asked. ‘Surely there is no sensible reason to wave a gun around, strike people over the head, and shoot at Sharon.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Hendrix. ‘He’s our Indian co-producer.’

  ‘Then if you know this man,’ I said, ‘you know that he is not a Turtle, and are in a position to convey this information to those under the misapprehension that he is.’

  ‘Maybe they’re not so wrong,’ said Hendrix.

  I couldn’t believe that Hendrix, a man of reason, albeit fish-phobic, would have succumbed to this hysteria.

  ‘We all need a Turtle,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Someone to blame.’

  ‘For what?’ I asked.

  ‘For us. For this. For it. Some people blame their parents. The Spanish lob goats off balconies. Americans drop bombs. Personally, I hate Arsenal supporters. I mean if it wasn’t for Arsenal…’

  ‘The world would be a better place?’

  ‘I’d have to blame somebody else.’

  The chants were growing more rhythmic.

  ‘I think we ought to stop them before they do something foolish,’ I said.

  ‘He doesn’t make a bad Turtle, though, does he?’ said Hendrix.

  ‘You are only saying this because your ribs hurt. But it is never wise to let your wounds dictate your actions.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Hendrix with a sigh. ‘I guess you’ve got a point.’ He walked forward. ‘Listen up!’ he shouted. ‘I think this has gone far enough. Yeah, yeah, love, he’s a bit like a turtle isn’t he, but not really. Yeah? Take a look at him. What do you see? Shell and flippers? Snappy jaws? No, you don’t. Madame, I can assure you that you don’t. So come on, give us some space. Shift it. You. Out of the way.’

  While Hendrix pushed through to the man with a cravat, Mike hurried over to tug at his elbow. ‘You’re not thinking,’ he hissed. ‘Is this something we actually have a problem with?’

  ‘He’s still got his goons,’ said Hendrix.

  ‘Not anymore,’ said Mike. ‘They think she’s a god come down for revenge.’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ said Sergeant Shrinivasan, collecting bits of Veena from around people’s feet. ‘It was the music. She began to dance and then she became the dance and now she is Shiva. Perhaps I should have played something a bit lighter.’

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ said Hendrix handing the Sergeant some brass inlays and a tuning knob. ‘And I’m really sorry about your banjo. I leant a guitar to Pete Townshend once, next thing it’s in pieces. Or was it Kurt Cobain? Or did I make that up?’ Hendrix frowned in the manner of one searching his brain for something no longer there.

  ‘But perhaps it was destined,’ said the Sergeant mournfully. ‘For why else were my fingers guided to play the Shivarag?’

  ‘I’m with you there,’ said Mike. ‘Destiny. What else could it be? And, let’s face it, a god’s got to do what a god’s gotta do.’

  The god in question was now standing in the centre of a hushed circle, the man with a cravat wriggling at her feet. Mrs Dong handed her the carving knife, its jagged blade flashing the afternoon sun against her face.

  ‘Sharon!’ called Hendrix but even he recognised that she was no longer his wife. She was Shiva incarnate, wielding the sword of justice over the trembling Turtle who had come to ravage and met, instead, his doom.

  ‘Help!’ croaked the man with a cravat, struggling to reach his gun a few inches away.

  Sharon was circling him in short, rhythmic steps, her feet lifting the dust, skirt swaying as she hummed the Sergeant’s tune.

  ‘I think we ought to get the gun,’ said Mike.

  But none of us were able to move.

  Sharon stopped. The crowd shuffled nervously, glancing away from her searing gaze and its glimpse of the infinity that all our petty efforts in life are merely an attempt to deny. The man with a cravat curled his fingers round the gun and began to drag it towards himself. He glanced at Sharon as she smiled down at him and, just for a moment, he too lay transfixed by the terrible light of her eyes and the understanding that death and life were merely a thing and its shadow and the dance of his darkness was nearing its end. He pointed the gun at her and pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  ‘It’s empty,’ shouted Hendrix. ‘And she knew it. Ha! Dirty Harry. Brilliant. That’s our favourite bloody film, pot noodle anybody?’

  ‘It does not fire because she wills it so,’ said Sergeant Shrinivasan, quietly.

  ‘Off with his head,’ shouted Mrs Dong.

  ‘Huh?’ said the man with a cravat.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mike, clapping his hands to a steady rhythm. ‘Off with his head. Off with his head.’

  Voices began to take up the chant although Mike looked less decisive, I thought, than he sounded.

  ‘Quality kitchenware as used for the slaying of Demonic Turtles!’ announced Mr Gupta, opportunistically but somehow inappropriate.

  The man with a cravat twisted his head, while he still had one, to peer at the crowd. I suspected he was looking for some assistance from his colleagues and would have been disappointed to see them on their knees begging forgiveness from anyone who cared to listen.

  Sharon stood over him now, the knife raised. The man with a cravat, sweating profusely, began to pull himself across the ground, but since both Sharon and the circle moved with him, after several minutes of prodigious effort he looked up to see that he’d apparently got nowhere.

  ‘Do it!’ shouted Mike.

  Sharon smiled again. The man with a cravat lifted a hand to protect himself.

  ‘Ah… excuse me…’ said Mr Chatterjee, stepping gingerly into the circle. ‘Before any summary decapitation occurs, I think you ought to hear what I have to say.’

  One or two people groaned.

  ‘No, really,’ said Mr Chatterjee. ‘This is most pertinent to the present circumstances, concerning as it does a conversation I had last night with a tree.’

  Sharon lowered the knife and looked at him. The man with a cravat breathed out. The whole of Pushkara stood open-mouthed waiting for Mr Chatterjee to speak, a situation so contrary to his usual experience that, for once, he was unable to say anything.

  ‘Ah… you see… it… um…’ was all he could manage before blowing his nose and grinning. Sharon ran her finger over the edge of the blade, producing a thin metallic note. The man with a cravat tried to move but found her feet on either side of his head. She bent down, grabbed his hair, forcing his chin back, and placed the blade against his throat.

  ‘Yes, Mr Chatterjee?’ I urged. ‘You had a conversation with a tree?’

  Several villagers tutted with irritation.

  ‘Preposterous,’ said one of them.

  ‘If you can explain how an Engli
sh dancer is able to transform into the incarnation of Shiva,’ I said, ‘I’m sure Mr Chatterjee can tell us how vegetation might develop the facility of discourse.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mr Chatterjee, gaining a little confidence. ‘For the one is as remarkable as the other, and today is indeed a remarkable day. Now, although I wouldn’t go so far as to say that any tree, given the appropriate circumstances, would be able to strike up a conversation, though perhaps all they’re waiting for is a simple “good morning, how are you today?”, nevertheless…’

  ‘Just tell us what it said,’ said Mike impatiently.

  ‘Well, after we’d introduced ourselves and exchanged a few pleasantries, I thought it an opportune moment to present one or two questions,’ said Mr Chatterjee. ‘Some of a philosophical nature and some, if I may say, of a more personal bent.’ He blew his nose again, blushing slightly. ‘After all, though lacking, perforce, in experiences of an ambulatory nature, it may well have learned much from the observation of ours.’

  ‘Cut both their heads!’ spluttered Mrs Dong.

  ‘But what did it say?’ I pressed.

  Mr Chatterjee froze for a moment. I nodded encouragingly.

  ‘It said that what we seek is before, behind, above and below us. There is nowhere that it is not,’ said Mr Chatterjee.

  ‘Is that all?’ said Mr Vaisvarya. ‘I wrote that fifty times once as a punishment.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Mr Chatterjee, ‘Clearly the tree was, in spite of its outwardly arboreal nature, well-versed in philosophical aphorisms. But when I questioned it on specifics, for instance what was meant by the slaying of the Turtle, it said “the conquest of greed”. Pressed further for elucidation, it said that the slaying is not of an individual, per se, nor indeed of a turtle, but of such personality adjuncts as arrogance, pomposity and the sheer bloody rudeness that most of you condescending bastards exhibit most of the time.’ There was a shocked silence in which Mr Chatterjee also participated.

  ‘Shit,’ said Mike. ‘She won’t do it.’

  Sharon’s demeanour was indeed changing as she listened to Mr Chatterjee, the rapturous glow from her eyes dissolving into something more puzzled.

  ‘I think Shiva is leaving her,’ whispered Sergeant Shrinivasan.

  ‘Mrs Shiver,’ said Mr Chatterjee with a bow. ‘You have cupped the waters and shown us the image of ourselves: liars and cheats who would jostle their neighbours for the momentary advantage of a retail opportunity, or call wantonly for the decapitation of a stranger. All have been revealed for the selfish, conceited, pusillanimous little shits that they really are.’

  ‘Pusi-what?’ said Mike.

  ‘And thus are they decapitated,’ said Mr Chatterjee, blushing again, ‘according to the true import of the legend. For their heads roll on the ground, ugly and ignominious for the ants to eat and feet to kick.’ He gave a little kick to demonstrate how it might be done. ‘And, as it was foretold, so the turtle of their vanity rolls dusty, kicked and ah… ant-eaten… on the ah… the ground, obviously…’ I could see that he was running out of steam. ‘Where it is not so much the ants that are kicking it, though ants have more feet and thus, perhaps, the cumulative effect…’

  Hendrix tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, that’s great,’ he said. ‘Hi Sharon.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘Okay, not quite Sharon yet.’ He looked at the man with a cravat. ‘Well now, what have we here? One lucky bugger. Thanks to this bloke…’ he nodded to Mr Chatterjee, ‘you’ve won today’s star prize: a chance to live. But don’t get excited now, it’s only a slim one.’

  The man with a cravat snarled at him.

  ‘You see,’ said Hendrix, ‘this lady isn’t a lady at all. Of course, normally I’d smack anyone who says that, but what I mean is she’s now the Lord Shiva. I know. That might raise a few questions tonight but we’ll face that when we get to it. Now, we all know about Shiva, don’t we? Well, I don’t, to be honest, but I figure you would, being, as they say, of an Indian persuasion. Am I right or am I right?’

  ‘I’ll have you,’ hissed the man with a cravat.

  ‘You lose a point!’ groaned Hendrix. ‘And you didn’t have many to start with. So let’s give you a hint. It’s Hint Time, everybody. And the hint is: “Yes, Mr Hendrix, I’ll do whatever you want, just please, please, don’t let her cut my head off”.’

  ‘Ravi!’ called the man with a cravat.

  ‘If you’re looking for your boys,’ said Hendrix, ‘I think you’ll find they’ve worked out you don’t mess with Shiva if you don’t want her messing with you. Hey, Shiva, show him your knife.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Shiva. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘That’s not Shiva,’ spat the man with a cravat, though mainly to get some dust out of his mouth. ‘That’s just a filthy tart.’

  ‘Oops,’ said Hendrix, kicking him in the chest. ‘That twitch again. So let’s put it another way. You’re bleeding to death, and you won’t last long. But the good news is: there is a Doctor, his name is Robby and, thanks to the wonders of modern medicine, he’s here with us today!’

  Among the indignant voices around us I could hear the words, ‘Skivvy’, ‘Clinic’ and ‘merely the’.

  ‘Now,’ said Hendrix, ‘Robby could stop that bleeding with just a couple of stitches. Isn’t that right, Robby?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I said. ‘Given the appropriate instruments. Unfortunately…’

  ‘We can sort that,’ said Hendrix. ‘One thing at a time. But the point is he won’t. Cause he doesn’t like you. And even though he could easily save your life, bish bosh, he ain’t gonna start ’til you get a bit nicer.’

  ‘That is not quite correct,’ I said. ‘If I only treated people I liked there’d hardly be anyone alive in Pushkara.’

  Which provoked a storm of protest though it was true and they knew it.

  Hendrix chuckled. ‘Well, he might have his professional ethics, but I’ve got mine. And you just called my wife a tart.’

  ‘Oof,’ said the man with a cravat.

  ‘But hey,’ said Hendrix withdrawing his foot, ‘tick tock, time’s out and if she won’t chop your head off, I will. Happily.’

  ‘I cut it,’ shrieked Mrs Dong. ‘Gimme knife. I kill all men in suits.’

  ‘What do you want?’ said the man with a cravat.

  ‘The contents of your wallet,’ said Hendrix. ‘Everything your boys are carrying and whatever’s in the boot of your car.’

  ‘There’s nothing in the boot of my car,’ said the man with a cravat.

  ‘Oh, there’s always something in the boot,’ smiled Hendrix. ‘And I want cash wired over to the bank here, which is to say every penny you owe us for the tour plus a little extra for the inconvenience. Or you can just hand over your head. What do you say?’

  ‘Damn you,’ said the man with a cravat.

  ‘Mrs Dong?’ said Hendrix.

  Mrs Dong seized the knife from Sharon and knelt beside the man with a cravat. Hendrix grimaced, looking away.

  ‘Alright,’ said the man with a cravat. ‘Alright. Stop her.’

  ‘We got a bank here?’ said Hendrix, prising the knife from Mrs Dong’s fingers.

  ‘Of course,’ said Malek. ‘The Shri Malek Bister Bank of International Deposits and Loans.’

  Several voices murmured puzzlement.

  ‘Although it doesn’t have a branch in the village as such. I am telling you this!’ said Malek tartly to his disbelievers. ‘Its headquarters are in the city and you have not heard of it because it is uninterested in the puny sums you’d scrape together if you toiled your whole bloody life and saved every paise you ever earned.’

  ‘Okay, let’s wire it over,’ said Hendrix.

  ‘I’ll need a phone,’ said the man with a cravat.

  ‘Where’s the nearest phone?’ asked Hendrix.


  ‘There are no telephones here,’ said Mr Chatterjee after a short silence. ‘Since anybody wishing to talk to anyone else has only to walk a few yards to find them. If they’re not at work or at home, they’ll be in the shops or at the bus stop. In any case, by the time you’ve found them you’ll have told any number of people on the way, so they would have most likely heard it from somebody else anyway.’

  ‘That’s if anyone’s listening,’ snickered someone unkindly.

  ‘There is such a thing,’ said Sergeant Shrinivasan, ‘in my office in the police station. It is a device of a peculiar shape with the word “Telephone” written on it.’

  ‘Does it work?’ said Mr Aptalchary, slightly shocked.

  ‘Extremely well,’ said the Sergeant, ‘in that its primary purpose is to stop piles of paper fluttering about when the window is open.’

  ‘But what else does it do?’ said Mike, perking up.

  ‘I am not sure,’ said the Sergeant. ‘But once a year or so it produces a terrible jangling noise that makes me jump out of my seat. In fact, one afternoon I accidentally knocked the top bit from the bottom thing and a ghostly voice called out.’ The Sergeant clutched his medals, a frequent symptom, for him, of remembered anxiety.

  ‘What did it say?’ asked Hendrix.

  ‘Hello, hello, is anybody there?’ recalled the Sergeant, shuddering.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Mrs Ginko from the other car. ‘There is an attaché case in the boot, as you predicted, with a large quantity of money in it.’

  The man with a cravat sighed.

  ‘Okay,’ said Hendrix. ‘What we need now is a lawyer so it’s all done properly. I don’t suppose…’

  Father pushed forward in his wig and gown. ‘I am such a one,’ he said, grandly. ‘As will be evident from my attire.’

  ‘You’re the man,’ said Hendrix. ‘So have a chat with this bloke here. Draw some papers up, nice and kosher. Mr Bister can sort the deposit. Then I reckon we’re outta here.’

  ‘But is there not something else?’ I said, quietly.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Hendrix. ‘Patch him up. I’ve got some gaffer tape if you’re short of the what nots.’