‘If we let this continue, the coolies will start deserting and then it will be impossible to get them back. Who knows how long this menace is going to be around? A few more months and the rains will start, the roads will become impassable and . . .’ The planter shrugged his shoulders.
‘Perhaps we can give the supervisors guns. They could stand guard in the fields where there is plucking or pruning. At least . . .’
‘Damned bad idea,’ interrupted a thin, weedy-looking planter, whom Freddie didn’t recognize (probably an owner-planter from some small estate, he thought). ‘You just can’t trust Indians these days. Have you forgotten what happened to the padre?’
‘I say, that’s rubbish,’ Fraser said, springing to his feet. ‘You can’t tar every Indian with the same brush. Indians died by the hundred in the Burma campaign just so that life for us could go on. Slim has said on the record that the Fourteenth Army couldn’t have done what it did without its Indian troops and officers.’ His outburst drew a couple of approving nods, but most of the planters displayed no emotion.
‘I’m not saying that all Indians are not to be trusted,’ the weedy planter said; ‘it’s just that these are difficult times . . .’
‘For Indians as well as for us,’ Fraser retorted. ‘I’m sure my Indian colleagues will bear me out.’ He sat down, looking around as he did for Kannan, then for the Parsi planter from Peermade. But there wasn’t a single Indian face in the room, apart from those of the bearers in their white jackets and trousers.
‘Dammit, sir.’ Freddie’s anger was evident as he got to his feet. He had realized why Kannan was absent. ‘I’ve just realized that there is not a single Indian planter in the room. Have they been left out of this meeting?’
‘Mr Hamilton, the decision was taken in the best interest of everyone, including our Indian colleagues, so we could speak freely and arrive at some decisions that would benefit us all,’ the President said quite calmly.
Freddie felt like flying at the man. When he found his voice, he said, ‘You, sir, must surely realize that if the Indian Assistants were not to be trusted, if the vast majority of Indians were not to be trusted, we wouldn’t be sitting around in our comfortable bungalows today. Actions like yours, sir, are driving our Indian friends from us. Damned bad form, I say.’ Just then the enormity of what he was doing dawned on him. He, Freddie Hamilton, a junior Assistant of the Pulimed Tea Company, was standing up and accusing the President of the Planters’ Association of being foolish and, furthermore, using the sort of abusive language that was rarely heard at PA meetings. His anger drained out of him. He looked around for support. Michael and Belinda Fraser looked sympathetic, but he did not see any encouragement on the faces of the other planters. Mrs Stevenson looked furious and Major Stevenson was gazing at the floor. Good God, he thought unhappily, what on earth have I done?
A chair scraped back and Michael Fraser got up. ‘Mr President, I don’t condone his language but I absolutely support my colleague’s view that our Indian friends should not have been excluded.’ The bar buzzed with excitement. Major Stevenson continued to look down at the floor. He would have to reprimand Freddie. There would be a scene, and he would have to be firm and explain away something that was patently unjust. And what if he resigned? And Kannan too? With two of his Assistants gone, how on earth was he going to run the show? Why did everything have to be so infernally complicated?
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Freddie gunned his motorcycle down the deserted estate roads, anger flaring inside him. His embarrassment and shock at his own impertinence had faded after a while, to be replaced once more by a sense of outrage. It was a glorious day, but Freddie didn’t notice, he was much too distracted. Could he be fired for his outburst at the club? A junior Assistant quite simply did not abuse a senior planter in public. So what? He didn’t care. If this was what planting was all about, then he was better off doing something else. Preoccupied with his thoughts, he almost missed the turn to the Morningfall bungalow. He slowed the motorcycle down, coasted to a stop by a wild guava tree. Its foliage was alive with screeching and squabbling rosy pastors. He watched them for a while. Until now, everything within him had itched to tell Kannan of the humiliation that had been visited on him, but now he began to wonder if he was doing the right thing. Perhaps he should just go on home. Kannan would get to hear of the PA meeting anyway, and would probably feel bad for a while, but these things happened in British India. More than likely he would find a way of accepting it. Then he thought of his friend trying to call up the tiger, and the anger rose up hotly again. Stupid, pompous bastards! How could they even think that Kannan was untrustworthy? He kicked the motorcycle into life and roared up the hill to the bungalow.
The butler led him into the living room.
‘Hullo there, Freddie,’ Kannan said brightly, ‘unexpected pleasure. I was thinking of going to the club, get in some tennis maybe, didn’t want to waste a fabulous day. Then got a bit too lazy, you know how it is. Beer?’
‘No, no. No, thank you. Tea will do fine, if you’re having some.’
Kannan called for tea.
Now that he was here, Freddie didn’t know how he was going to broach the subject. Kannan was the first to break the silence.
‘How are we going to sort out this strike? I’ve been sitting around thinking about it, and short of giving the supervisors guns, there doesn’t seem to be any way to get them back to work. The President of the PA should convene a meeting . . .’
The tea arrived and Kannan poured. He should tell him now, Freddie thought. But how did you tell a man, whose sense of self-worth and pride were high, that he was less than he was, in the eyes of his fellows?
‘I think we should put our heads together, hammer out a solution quickly, before things get out of hand,’ Kannan was saying. ‘The PA . . .’
‘The PA is of no use to you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s the reason I came. There was a PA meeting to discuss the killings, and the Indian planters were excluded and Michael and I were outraged by it, and I protested . . . and . . . and that’s why I’m here . . .’ Freddie said in a rush.
‘I see,’ Kannan said slowly. He didn’t speak for a while, then said, ‘Remember my friend Murthy?’
‘Yes, I do, an intense man.’
‘Yes, intense. And focused. He told me my desire to excel here, to make something of myself in the white man’s world, was counterfeit. Nothing I’d ever achieve would stand up to scrutiny. He was right.’ There was another long pause, then Kannan said gravely, ‘It was really good of you to stand up for me.’
‘It was nothing,’ Freddie said.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some thinking to do . . .’
‘Of course,’ Freddie said. He got up hastily, almost dropping his cup in the process.
Some time after Freddie left, Kannan decided to get some fresh air. Around noon he found himself high in the hills overlooking his bungalow. It was a view similar to the one that had first entranced him in Pulimed. But he saw nothing of its enchantment for the rage that swept over him. What do you have against me, God, he stormed, that you trip me up at every stage in life, wreck my every safe haven? First appa, then Helen, now this.
Angrily, Kannan scanned the brilliantly lit panorama below. This had been the world he had escaped to; this was the foundation on which he was to rebuild his life. It had proved hollow . . .
Something Murthy had said during his visit seeped into his mind.
When we are young, his friend had said, the truths we have acquired are pristine and pure, they admit of no other. Our heroes, our opinions, our convictions – we are passionate about these to a degree that will never again be matched by such intensity. When these are corroded, our disappointment is extreme; we are full of a rage that is so keen, so real, so vigorous that it takes us over completely. Middle age is tired, which is why it is tolerant. Youth is when we are most primed to act as our heart tells us. We are dismissive of our fears, r
eady to reject caution and advice, and willing to be what we most truly want ourselves to be. Murthy was right, Kannan thought, at this point he was willing to do whatever was necessary to attain his objective, which was to redeem himself in his own eyes. But what should he do? To whom should he turn for advice? For support? Helen was no longer available to him, nor was his father. Freddie (he was ashamed as he thought this) was white. The enemy and not to be trusted . . .
In an attempt to purge himself of the anger and frustration, he began walking hard, trying to exhaust himself. An hour or so later, he had achieved a measure of calm, and had decided on a course of action. He would find and destroy the Pulimed Tiger or whoever or whatever was the killer, thereby erasing the suspicion in his colleagues’ minds. And then he would show them what it meant to meddle with a Dorai. He would resign from the company and help his countrymen throw the white ingrates out. Brown would overwhelm white in a great surging wave; the oppressors would be nothing more than flecks of foam on a seething brown torrent.
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The next morning he sent Stevenson and Fraser chits to say he was unwell, and wouldn’t be at work for the next two days. Then he shut himself up in the small room off the drawing room that he used as a study, and drank. Kannan wasn’t much of a drinker, and by noon he had passed out.
The butler found him stooped over his desk in the evening, and unsure of how to deal with the situation, went off and got him a pot of coffee. Kannan stared blearily at the man as he unloaded the contents of the tray on to the desk. The minute Manickam placed the coffee pot on the table, Kannan snatched it up and flung it out of the window, the savage gesture executed with scalpel-fine economy. Completely unnerved, the butler dropped the tray. Kannan instructed him to clean up the mess and dragged himself out of the study. The brief display made him feel much better. Then he felt sick. He took himself off to the bathroom and then to bed.
He began drinking again the next morning. All through that day and night he nursed his hurt with all the rancour and anger he could muster. All the other slights and setbacks he had received in his life, some as clear as the day they had happened, others only dimly remembered, pressed down and further oppressed him, and then, dimly through the anger, pain, confusion and bitterness, he began to perceive how he must implement the decision he’d arrived at . . .
On the morning of the third day, tired and hung-over, Kannan was trying to get some porridge down when he heard the sound of a motorcycle. Freddie walked into the dining room, and if he was surprised to see the normally neat Kannan unshaven and dishevelled he didn’t say so.
‘Heard you were unwell, so decided to pop by after church.’
‘The demon drink, old chap, otherwise I’m fine,’ Kannan said with a wry smile. ‘So what next? Am I to stand trial for seven, no, eight murders?’
Freddie glanced sharply at his friend.
‘Things are not that bad, Cannon,’ he said.
‘Maybe not for you, but then you’re white. I’ve just discovered I’m brown and no amount of soap and water will scrub it away.’
‘Hey, easy on, old boy. No need to come over all shirty . . .’
‘I remember Belinda, or was it Michael, saying once: “He was the whitest Englishman I know.” White, Freddie, for fair, brave, decent, courageous, heroic . . . and brown, black, yellow, olive for revolting things that have crawled out of the dark.’
‘Come on, Cannon, take it easy.’
‘I’m sick and tired of taking it easy, Freddie. The day will come when we’re all sick and tired of taking it easy and then where will we be?’
‘Look, Cannon, I thought we were friends . . .’
‘I hope we still are . . . What happened to your face?’ Kannan had just noticed a slight thickening of Freddie’s jaw. ‘Got into a fight?’
‘Nothing as fancy as that. Just clumsy old Freddie with two left feet. Slipped while getting out of the bath and the lip of the tub caught me a nasty whack,’ Freddie said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll run along then. See you at work tomorrow.’
‘You’re a poor liar. Tell me what really happened.’
Slowly and patiently, Kannan managed to coax the truth out of Freddie. Over the past couple of days, while Kannan had gloomed about his bungalow, a rash of crudely lettered posters, demanding in Tamil that the whites get out, had begun appearing on trees and walls around the district. The police had arrested a couple of labour leaders but the murder of the Reverend Ayrton hung heavy on the planters’ minds and their suspicions weren’t laid to rest by the arrests.
Freddie had gone to the club as usual on Saturday and after lunch had found himself in the middle of a group of people who were quite drunk and expounding a theory that he hadn’t heard before: how was it, asked one obnoxious Assistant, that none of the killings, with the exception of the first one, had taken place on the Pulimed Tea Company’s estates? Was it because Kannan worked there? And why had the posters only started appearing when Kannan absented himself from work?
Did they know, he had asked, that Kannan’s uncle had been imprisoned by the authorities for being a terrorist?
‘Damned liar. He knew I was a friend of yours. It was almost as though he was daring me to take him on.’
‘I don’t know where he found out about my Aaron-chithappa, Uncle Aaron to you,’ Kannan said. ‘He was in prison for many years. He was one of the early freedom fighters. I wish I had known him.’
‘The way Taylor put it, he seemed to suggest he was a criminal.’
‘He certainly wasn’t a criminal.’
‘I didn’t think so . . .’
‘And so you took the blighter on,’ Kannan said with a grin. ‘But you should have seen him,’ Freddie said, adding modestly, ‘He was much more drunk than I was. Nasty piece of work though.’
‘Thank you, Freddie, I truly appreciate it,’ Kannan said as he walked his friend to his motorcycle.
‘Oh, I say, there’s another piece of news that I almost forgot,’ Freddie said. ‘The police have taken someone into custody for the pastor’s murder, a former sacristan who was dismissed for thieving. Apparently he’d threatened to get even, and was considered quite capable of carrying out the threat while under the influence . . .’
‘But our friend yesterday and others like him would rather I remained the prime suspect. God, how they must hate me.’
‘Spineless bastards every one . . . But look, I’m off to Madras next week . . .’
‘Lucky devil, I know you had some leave coming, but how did you manage to get around Michael?’
‘Well, with the strike and everything, he thought this would be the best time for me to slip away . . .’
‘How long will you be gone?’
‘A fortnight, sixteen days actually. Is there anything I can do for you in Madras?’
‘Not a blessed thing,’ Kannan said.
‘Why don’t you drop in for a drink, Saturday? I leave early Monday.’
‘I’ll be there,’ Kannan said.
When his friend had gone, Kannan went to his room, had a bath and changed. He was not surprised to hear that he was the subject of gossip and innuendo. It only strengthened his resolve. He thought: The world pushes, and it pushes, and then we push back, just a bit . . .
That evening, contrary to protocol, he went across to the General Manager’s Bungalow, without an appointment. The Stevensons were having tea when Kannan rode up, but he declined the offer to join them and asked to speak to Major Stevenson alone. Mrs Stevenson was none too happy at the request, and assumed her imperious aspect, but Kannan stood his ground.
As they strolled on the bungalow’s vast lawns, Kannan made no reference to the events of the past days and asked only that when the next killing took place he be given a week’s leave to bring the killer to book. And a guarantee that no one else would interfere in the hunt. Stevenson looked pensive, then nodded. He decided it was probably wiser not to ask any questions.
From that day onwards, every morning before he left for wo
rk, Kannan, who had never paid anything but lip-service to his faith, would offer up a fervent prayer. Please, Lord, let the killer strike again.
Nine days later his prayers were answered.
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At the northern boundary of Morningfall division, the estate fell away steeply to a deep ravine, along the bottom of which ran a little stream. Beyond the ravine was an unusually shaped hill that split into two about halfway up. At certain angles the twin peaks resembled human faces, as a result of which they were dubbed Annan-Thambi. The valley between them was thickly forested, the scurf of trees extending well beyond the base of the hills. A footpath ran through the patch of jungle. The labourers on the estate used the trail as a convenient short cut to Pulimed town, which lay on the other side of Annan-Thambi. The alternative was a five-mile walk.
After the advent of the man-eater nobody dared use the footpath, unless a large party could be mustered to make the journey. The latest victim had made the fatal error of taking the short cut alone. His wife had come down with a high fever, and as it was barely an hour past noon he thought he could hurry across the hill to the small dispensary in town and get back before the light began to fade. He hadn’t reckoned on the fact that a man-eating tiger, having lost its innate fear of man, will hunt both by night and by day. At a bend in the jungle road, the man-eater had sprung out on the unfortunate man and killed him. It had dragged the body to a small clearing, and after eating about half of it, had retreated deeper into the forest. The alarm had been raised when the man failed to reach town, and Kannan was at the kill within a few hours. With him he had the local poacher, a necessary evil, and a couple of his own men. The poacher interpreted the killing with only a minimum amount of exaggeration.
Casting around for a suitable place to sit up over the kill, they decided on a medium-sized jungle tree, shrouded by a thick screen of bushes. Instructing his men to build a machan some twenty feet off the ground, Kannan hurried off.
The House of Blue Mangoes Page 49