Hillstation

by Robin Mukherjee

  ‘If you want you can come with us,’ she said.

  I looked at her.

  ‘There’s immigration issues, obviously, so we’ll have to see. I don’t suppose you’ve got a passport?’

  ‘Passport?’

  ‘I’m sure we could sort something. I don’t know. But I’ll wait for you if you want to come. Of course we’ll have to get married. They won’t let you in otherwise. The Sergeant said he could find someone to do that. We’ve got the money. I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.’

  ‘You will marry me?’

  ‘Why not?’ she shrugged.

  ‘And this means you love me?’

  ‘You seemed to think so,’ she said.

  ‘There were some indications to the contrary.’

  ‘You asked for that,’ she chuckled. ‘Look, I’ve known a lot of men. You know what I mean. But I don’t think anyone’s ever known me. Or even wanted to. The whole me. They just want a bit of it. A picture. But a picture fades. And pages turn. And sooner or later you close the cover. But I’ve never met anyone who’d do anything for me. Who’d carry his friend for miles, and find the strength he didn’t know he had to do wonderful things. Who’d find it in my eyes. Whatever’s there. Something. I don’t know. I’m not sure you know me at all. And I’m pretty sure I don’t know you. But somehow I’m getting to know myself a little bit better. And I never thought I could do that.’

  ‘You are a goddess,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t say that. I’ll only disappoint you.’

  ‘But only a goddess has that power in her eyes.’

  ‘Well,’ she looked away for a moment. ‘Nobody’s ever said that and meant it the way you do.’

  I stood up and walked to the window. The hand that moves all this had given me my wish.

  ‘It won’t be easy,’ she said. ‘And I don’t think England’s what you think it is. I mean, it’s great sometimes. The Autumn. Kicking leaves. Frosty mornings. And Spring. Like you’d forgotten what green was. We could find a place. Maybe quiet, maybe not. The cities are big. Not half so busy but they’re big. We could find a mountain but we don’t have mountains like you do.’

  ‘I miss them already,’ I said.

  ‘You’ll miss a lot of things,’ she said, softly. ‘Most people I know just want to get away from where they are. But you can only ever be where you are. So you spend your whole life dreaming of somewhere that isn’t anywhere, and I guess, if you’re not careful, you can end up nowhere.’

  ‘I felt this today when I saw no mountains.’

  She smiled a little.

  ‘And so many strangers,’ I said.

  ‘The world’s full of them,’ she said. ‘Everywhere you look. People who don’t see you. People who don’t care.’

  ‘I don’t think they care for me in Pushkara.’

  ‘They do. They just don’t know it. Perhaps they do now. You saw them crying when you left. And didn’t one of them jump on the bonnet?’

  ‘I think he was trying to sell us a wooden snake.’

  ‘Who’s going to sort out their aches and pains and give them little pills to keep them quiet? Who’s your father going to shout at?’

  ‘I think deep down he is only shouting at himself,’ I said.

  ‘He’s got some issues, that’s for sure. You should talk to him.’

  ‘How can one talk to him?’

  ‘Then shout at him,’ she said. ‘I think you need to shout. At him. At anything. Shout at me.’

  ‘I could never do that.’

  ‘Then it won’t be much of a marriage.’

  But I could see that she was teasing me now.

  ‘Rabindra,’ she said. ‘When you came into the room just now there was something in your eyes I hadn’t seen before.’

  ‘I was pleased about Pol.’

  ‘It wasn’t just that. Think about it.’

  I thought about it.

  ‘I met someone,’ I said. ‘On the stairs. A nurse.’

  Martina smiled.

  ‘And for some reason I cannot get her out of my head.’ I walked over to the window. The world seemed so very large, suddenly, with so many rooms and corners and corridors and stairs that you could turn up or down, or not, or stop, or not, or never take, or take looking down or up, and so many people among whom was the one whose eyes now haunted me.

  ‘And what matters,’ said Martina, ‘even more than seeing her again is that she’s there. Somewhere. You know that. And you didn’t have to burn butter or whatever it is you did for me. She came because she did. And you don’t need her for anything. She’s what she is and who she is and that’s enough. And it doesn’t matter where you are or where you live, you’ll always have that.’

  ‘But it also hurts,’ I said. ‘In a slightly wonderful way.’

  ‘Of course. Because, in another way, the only thing you can ever do now is find her again.’

  ‘This is not contradictory?’

  ‘Did I say I was an expert?’

  The airport was even more bewildering than the city, with its glittering lights, jostling trolleys, and aeroplanes screaming overhead. I hadn’t realised how big those frail beads, trailing feathers across the pale skies, were as they stood on the ground, panting with impatience, waiting to fly. The terminal, teeming with families, businessmen, and suitcases, echoed with the cacophony of a thousand voices. And, as I quickly discovered, you couldn’t stand still without somebody elbowing you aside and cursing as they hurried off.

  Mike was looking more comfortable than I’d ever seen him as he walked through a door marked ‘Departures’. He glanced round to smile but was interrupted by an official telling him to put his cigarette out. Martina turned from the man who studied her passport, more closely than I thought necessary, to give me a sad, sweet smile that I wear in my heart to this day. I noticed that even the Sergeant had red eyes, though his chest stood out, its glistening medals gilding him with stoic dignity. The last I saw of Martina was the hem of her skirt as it swung round the corner, and the briefest flash of tanned ankle, perfect in form and movement, before she was gone.

  The drive back was conducted without the siren though Sergeant Shrinivasan had argued its need for several miles. I was surprised to prevail in my views and wondered at the new deference he was showing towards me. Perhaps it had something to do with the badge presented to me by Mr Shankar before we left.

  ‘You did a splendid job,’ he had said. ‘Quite superb. I wish my students could stitch like that, never mind plaster so beautifully. But you kept him alive, that’s the thing. In spite of the odds. Frankly, I’d say it was little short of miraculous.’

  ‘Only miraculous,’ I’d said, ‘in that I could recall a few rudimentary procedures from the medical dictionary.’

  ‘There’s plenty of Doctors who can do that,’ he had replied. ‘Too many if you ask me. If it’s not in the book, they haven’t a clue. But there’s a few, just a few, mind, who’ve got that extra something. People feel better when they should be getting worse. People live when they might have died. Wounds heal when the book says they shouldn’t. It’s not what you know, it’s what you are. And I think that’s you. And that’s worth incalculably more than all the clinical drones who’ve read every book backwards.’

  ‘Perhaps they should try reading forwards,’ I suggested.

  He smiled. ‘Look, I know what it’s like in these places, these hillstations or what have you. Precious few medics, if any. And you can’t send people away to study. So the right man steps up. Which is how it used to be. Never mind these gadgets and gizmos. Medicine men. That’s how it started. With just the few. The few that have it. In recognition of which, if you would allow us, there’s something we’d like to give you.’

  He nodded to a little group of Doctors and nurses who shuffled aside to reveal the nurse I’d met on the stairs.
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  ‘Nurse Devi?’ said Mr Shankar. ‘If you would.’

  ‘Devi?’ I said. ‘A goddess?’

  ‘She is indeed,’ said Mr Shankar.

  Nurse Devi held out a small plastic badge with a safety pin through the back.

  ‘This is for you,’ she said. ‘Please. Take it.’

  As I did so, my fingers brushed hers. She blushed.

  ‘You should wear this when you’re working,’ said Mr Shankar. ‘Well, if you like. It’s up to you. It’s just a bit of protocol, I suppose, but there’s a place for that in this peculiar profession of ours. And, of course, should any future business bring you here.’

  He patted me on the shoulder, smiled and walked off followed by Doctor Gupta and the nurses.

  The badge read, ‘Rabindranath Sharma, Associate Physician, University Hospital’.

  ‘Nurse?’ said Mr Shankar, stopping at the door. Nurse Devi had remained by the trolley.

  ‘Just a moment?’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’

  She looked at me. ‘Where did you say you were from?’ she said, blushing again.

  ‘Pushkara,’ I said.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘In the mountains.’

  ‘I love the mountains.’

  ‘You know them?’

  ‘No. But if I did I’m sure I’d love them.’

  ‘You should visit us,’ I said.

  She smiled suddenly. ‘I just might.’ Then she turned, following Mr Shankar into the busy corridor, and was lost from sight.

  I’m not sure that the mountains welcomed me back. As I’ve said, I’m not sure they do anything. But they were beautiful and magnificent and I was glad to see them again.

  Pol and Cindy came up to say goodbye a few months later. The new Memorial Hall wasn’t completed, in fact it hadn’t even been started, so we held part of their wedding in the Nirvana Hotel and the rest of it under the Rock. Although some priests officiated according to procedure, the final blessing was delivered by Sharon with all the powers that, so far as we were concerned, she now embodied.

  I managed to spend a little time with Pol, though we couldn’t skip up to the caves for obvious reasons. We sat under the bodhi tree instead, watching the world go by, or at least the little bit of it we had always known.

  ‘I’m glad you weren’t a fiend,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps I was, in some ways,’ I replied.

  ‘You know,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘the Turtle’s just what we think about ourselves.’

  Which I pondered for a long time, concluding eventually that you don’t have to fall off a rock to become wise but it helps. I also managed to put a question to Cindy which had bothered me for some time. Was Martina serious about marrying me or had she only said that to make me think? Cindy fingered the curls around her ear for a moment. ‘With Marty,’ she said at last, ‘you never know.’

  The farewell had everyone in tears. Malek and Mrs Bister were speechless for once, smiling with pride at their handsome son and his beautiful bride. That he was to live in England was a piquant joy, for they were happy in his dream come true, but sad not to be more of a part of it. Children scattered flowers behind the bus as Pol and Cindy leaned out of the window waving.

  When the Memorial Hall was finished, finally, there was much debate over what to call it. Malek no longer insisted that it bear his name, though he commissioned a bust of himself for the lobby. In the end I suggested we call it ‘The Pushkara Official Leisure Centre’ or ‘The P.O.L. Centre’ for short. This was both satisfactory to the Bisters, who delighted in the memory of their son, and acceptable to the elders who didn’t register its significance for years.

  A small part of the man with a cravat’s money went towards the purchase of a beautiful new Rudra Veena for Sergeant Shrinivasan to play once a month to packed houses. That he was merely accompanying a dance recital performed, in person, by the Lord Shiva herself might have contributed to the popularity of these events. Some of the elders grumbled that she removed a little too much clothing at times but, after some discussion, it was decided that as she was a god no impropriety had occurred. Gods and goddesses can happily go naked where ordinary mortals would cause embarrassment. Although Sharon never went quite that far, she did remove enough to attract an audience of younger men whose passion for matters metaphysical grew to an enthusiasm bordering on frenzy.

  My brother Dev, who wasn’t really a Doctor and had never been to England, suggested we rename our place of work the ‘Rabindranath Sharma Associate Physician Centre’ but I said its existing name was more than adequate. He researched less and smiled more and seemed to take pleasure in opening the Pushkara Clinic every morning, standing at its threshold to greet the first patients who hurried in coughing, limping or scratching indecorously at some bodily adjunct. As Senior Porter, he provided valuable service though mostly I was just glad of his smile. At the end of the day, after we’d mopped the floors and scrubbed the instruments, he would regale me with stories of Madras as we walked home; his adventures, friends and the pretty nurses he had known.

  Father remained rather quiet, spending many hours in the Puja Room talking to Mother. He took to eating without complaint, or at least complaints offered merely as suggestions. Both my sisters married the Buddhist Cook which caused a bit of a stir, although Mrs Dong assured us that it was perfectly proper according to the cultural protocols to which she subscribed. I was never entirely convinced by that, but they all seemed happy enough.

  Although everyone enjoyed having Hendrix around, it was obvious after a few months that he was getting restless. He told me one evening that he’d known some dives in his day but nothing had prepared him for life in a cave. We were coming back from one of Mr Chatterjee’s public discourses with the sacred tree. Hendrix had sighed and said that you haven’t lived ’til you’d lived with a goddess but he ‘kinda missed the rock and roll. He said he’d visit again, obviously, and we hugged. He also said, ‘you guys need to keep quiet about that black goo down in the valley’.

  ‘Why?’ I had said.

  ‘Trust me,’ he said, patting my shoulder. ‘I’m a roadie.’

  Otherwise, everything in Pushkara was much the same as it had been and, I suppose, would always be. The elders grumbled about the youth of today as the youth of today became the elders of tomorrow and grumbled in their turn. Many Sharons were born in those years, several Mike’s and even a couple of Hendrixes. Cravats, meanwhile, in spite of numerous promotions at Bister’s Boutique, sometimes undercut by Sergeant Shrinivasan, failed to catch on. Mahadev, though more Dev than Maha to me, was still the greatest of all gods, at least to the young ladies who swooned in his presence. Brahma’s shoes were as speckled as ever, while Rama’s cigarette stall remained a popular gathering point. Saraswati continued to move the dust around with her bundle of twigs, while Lakshmi made hats, and Indra sold tea from the streets of Pushkara to every deity under the sun. As for me, perhaps I was that sun. Hendrix had once said, ‘Nobody looks at the sun, cause it burns their eyes. But without the sun, nobody sees nothing. So, blaze on baby.’ Which I suppose, in my humble way, I do.

  And of Nurse Devi who had smiled at me on the stairs and blushed when our hands touched? Well, that’s another story.

  Copyright

  First published in 2016

  Oldcastle Books

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  © Robin Mukherjee

  Editor: Keshini Naidoo

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